Run, Baby Run
by ArthursCamelot
Summary: "When she opened her eyes, she was in the middle of the Enchanted Forest, nearly three centuries in the past, and though she did not know it, she was finally home." Emma Swan arrives in Storybrooke five years early, chasing a bail jumper that leads her to Granny's Diner and a teenager who calls himself an Author and promises she's in for one hell of an adventure. CS all the way.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: Greetings, new fandom! I've been gone from the site for a few years, but I am back and I've got stuff to post. Safe to say, I binged OUAT over the summer and so spawned this epic beast right here. I've been working on it whenever my MA degree allowed, and I feel like I've got enough material now that I won't weep in despair when my degree program inevitably sucks the life out of my soul (it's nearly thesis time *shudders*). So, you guys and this fic are going to be my happy place I go to when my advisor asks why I don't have my life together. Rock on, fandom.**

 **So! This story is completely, totally, inescapably _Captain Swan, the glory years_. Think early seasons full of sass and bickering. This is one big story in three parts that are: **

**Part One: The Enchanted Forest**

 **Part Two: The Crocodile**

 **Part Three: Storybrooke**

 **We've got a lot of ground to cover, but I promise we'll get to everything in time! Enjoy.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing of OUAT. Unfortunately.**

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Part One: The Enchanted Forest

Chapter 1

Emma Swan could pick a lock like Houdini: seamlessly and with a sense of flare. Bright green eyes looked up and down the hall of the ramshackle apartment building as the tumblers fell into place with a _click_. A light flickered down the hall. She saw the tail of a mouse dart beneath the door of 25B. No one the wiser.

She quietly opened the door and came face to face with an empty room.

"What the hell?"

The apartment was entirely barren. Emma walked further into the small living room, the soles of her brand new leather boots squeaking slightly over the dry, dusty floorboards. There wasn't even furniture. No moth-eaten couch, no dirty dishes, no discarded pizza boxes and beer bottles like she'd come to expect in her line of work as a bail bonds woman. The wallpaper was peeling in places, and the window leading onto the fire escape was smashed though there wasn't a shard of glass in sight. The only thing in the apartment was a stained brass bed frame that took up the entire bedroom.

"You've got to be kidding me," Emma grumbled as she pulled out her phone. She opened her email she'd received from the Tallahassee PD. Supposedly a man named Frank Jinks had skipped his bail and fled to Middle-of-Nowhere, Maine. Stripped for cash, Emma had made the three-day drive without complaint.

Now she was complaining.

All her detective work had brought her to this apartment. Frank Jinks had taken a bus all the way to Augusta before stealing a car from a gas station and making his way to Storybrooke. From there it only took one quick search in the phone book for the cheapest apartments in town and a blank space by the doorbell for apartment 28E.

There was absolutely no sign that anyone had so much as crashed in nothing but their clothes. She could see her footprints in the dust all around the apartment. She was the only one who'd been in the apartment in years.

Emma called the Department as she walked out of the apartment.

"Yes?"

"Hi," Emma said. "I'm Emma Swan. I was sent to bring back a Frank Jinks who missed his court date last week. I was wondering if you had any new information on his whereabouts."

The officer on the line paused. "What did you say the name was?"

"Jinks. Frank Jinks."

"I'm sorry. I just checked the system. There's no Frank Jinks."

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

"No, you sent me after him. Officer Jesse Plath. He's the guy I've been dealing with."

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but according to his case files, he doesn't have anything to do with a Frank Jinks."

Emma huffed. "Well, your files are wrong, buddy. Check again."

"I can transfer you to my supervisor."

"Just check again!"

"I'm sor—"

Emma hung up before he could apologize (insincerely, she would add) again. Another curse left her lips as she walked out onto the street. Storybrooke was a dead little seaside town. Quaint. That's how a travel magazine would describe it. Little boat tours. Mayberry Main Street. Boutiques. A cute place to grab a postcard and forget about a day later.

She wanted to get the hell out.

Her yellow Volkswagon Bug sat on the curb, a too-bright spot of color in the otherwise dreary town. A breeze swept up her blonde hair as she slid into the driver's seat, and she growled in annoyance as she swiped the strands out of her face. The radio station played Madonna's "Like a Virgin" and she quickly shut it off as she sped toward Main Street.

If you asked her later, Emma would say that she chose to stop at Granny's Diner because fate demanded she stop. _That_ Emma, an Emma that had lived a life that belonged in a fairytale, _she_ believed in things like that. Fate. Magic.

Now, however, in this time, Emma stopped because she was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire for a good cup of hot cocoa with cinnamon. The drink was a comfort, one of the few happy memories of her childhood that she clung to. She had vague memories of an older woman in one of the orphanages making it especially for her and only for her. It had made her different from the other kids. Special.

The diner was relatively empty. It had a fifties vibe with its red leather barstools and long counter that separated the kitchen from the seating. A jukebox stood on the far wall next to a dart board. Foreigner's "Waiting for a Girl Like You" began to play as she slid onto one of the stools.

The woman behind the counter eyed her appraisingly. She looked every inch a granny with the exception of her bullet-like eyes and the way she marched over like a soldier ready for a fight. Emma tensed in response.

"What can I get you?" Granny asked.

"Hot cocoa," Emma said. "With cinnamon, if you could."

Granny cocked an eyebrow and huffed. "Huh."

"What?"

"I know a kid who always asks for the same thing."

"Really?"

The bell above the diner dinged, and Granny nodded pointedly. "There he is, actually."

"Hey Granny," a boy slid easily onto the stool beside Emma, "how's it going?"

"Not bad. The usual?"

"Yep."

Emma glanced at the boy. Well, teenager, she supposed. She imagined him to be somewhere near fourteen or fifteen. He was a cute kid. Dark hair and warm brown eyes that flashed with a hint of mischief when he suddenly met her gaze with a small smirk. "I haven't seen you here before," he said. "We don't get many visitors here in Storybrooke. None at all, actually."

"Can't imagine why," Emma scoffed but the boy just smiled.

"Yeah, probably best, though," he said casually and Emma frowned. Before she could wonder what he meant, he offered her his hand. "I'm Henry."

"Emma."

Granny brought their cocoa then, and Henry's eyes lit up, strangely fond, when he eyed their matching drinks. "Cinnamon makes it better," he said. "Don't you think?"

Well, this kid was certainly chatty with strangers. Emma wondered if it was a product of small town trust. "Yeah, kid," she agreed. "Never actually met anyone else who liked it."

Henry smiled. "It's a family thing at my house."

He took a sip and Emma took one as well. Henry watched her, as if waiting for her opinion, and so she obliged him, truthfully admitting, "It's good."

"Yeah, you can always count on Granny." He took another drink and asked, "So, what brings you to town?"

"Work."

"Any luck?"

"Turns out the job's a dud."

Henry shrugged, but his eyes danced like he had a secret. "You never know," he said as he slipped off his backpack and set it on the counter. He opened a pocket and took out a pen and an ink well. "Maybe you were meant to be here."

Emma snorted, mildly amused by the idea. "You think so, kid?"

"Doesn't matter if I do," he said. "It matters if you do."

What the hell did that mean? Emma took another sip of her cocoa as she watched him take out an old piece of paper. Parchment, she thought. It was actually parchment. He opened up his ink well and then carefully dipped his pen as if he couldn't allow a single drop to spill. She eyed the pen curiously. It was simple but elegant. Sleek and black with a gold tip.

"Bit old-fashioned," she said.

Henry didn't look up from his writing, but he smiled. "I guess."

"So, you're a writer, huh?"

"An Author, yeah," he agreed. "It's my job to write people's stories." He glanced at her, brown eyes alight with something she couldn't name. "I might write yours one day."

Emma scoffed. "My story ain't that great."

"All the heroes say that."

"I'm no hero."

"They say that, too."

"What makes you believe I'm some hero?"

"You're sitting at a diner by yourself. You're lonely. Your job didn't work out but you didn't just pack up and leave, 'cause you've really got nowhere else to be. You're all set up for a great adventure," he explained simply before smirking, as if he was sharing an inside joke she was supposed to understand, "and besides, believing is kind of my thing."

Emma blinked. "Right," she said slowly. "Well, good luck with your story."

"Thanks," he said brightly. "But I think you'll need it more than me."

"Uh huh."

Time to go. She pulled out a handful of ones from her pocket and dropped them onto the bar. She didn't say goodbye. Something about the kid made her want to hightail it out of there. She opened the door. It dinged sharply.

She could still hear the jukebox in the background once she was outside. A car passed by as she took a step. A sparrow flew out from a bush, jostling the small branch with a rustle. She thought she heard someone call her name. She took another step even as she turned back toward the diner.

Henry sat at the bar as he wrote the final words, glancing out the window where Emma stood staring at him. He had just enough time to smile at her before she abruptly vanished.

He looked down at the beginning of his newest story.

 _Emma Swan had never believed in fairytales. She had never believed in heroes and villains or princes and princesses. She was simply a woman without a home who had known too little love in her young life._

 _All of that changed when she stepped out of the diner and chose to turn around. She met the Author's eyes as he smiled, and then she vanished quicker than a blink._

 _When she opened her eyes, she was in the middle of the Enchanted Forest, nearly three centuries in the past, and though she did not know it, she was finally home._

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 **Short chapter, I know, but it sets things up!**

 **Anyhoo, review! Please, drop me a line. Or smiley face. I happily, giddily accept smiley faces. Also, I had a bit of a tradition when I was posting like a fiend, so here's a little preview line from the next chapter. Let's see . . . who shall it be? Hmm . . . Killian!**

 _ **"You're a tough lass, aren't you? Killian Jones, at your service."**_

 **I'll update every Friday. So, see you next time.**

 **Lots of love,**

 **AC**

 **P.S. I'm also posting a WinterWidow Captain America fic, so if you're a Marvel fan, feel free to peruse!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes: I'm back for another chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. It's always awesome when someone who loves something as much as you is willing to tell you what they think. So, thanks for all the feedback. You rock.**

 **Alrighty, then! This chapter really kicks off Part One: The Enchanted Forest. Prepare for an adventure!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. Seriously. How many times do I have to say it?**

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Chapter 2

Emma woke up in the woods.

Shock prevented even a gasp of surprise as she slowly sat up and stared upward, wide-eyed, at the trees that towered above her. It was night, one of the blackest nights she had ever known, yet that wasn't what disturbed her the most. She listened carefully but there was nothing. Nothing at all.

She'd lived in cities all her life. Even in the suburbs, she'd known noise. A car passing by. The neighbor's television blaring too loudly. A barking dog. It was a pleasant, reassuring hum that everyone ignored yet took comfort in because it meant they were not alone.

Emma listened.

She only heard her own heartbeat at first, loud and thick in her ears. An ominous _da dum, da dum._ Then a twig snapped. Leaves shuffled on the forest floor. Soft little paws scurried in a tree.

Her next breaths came easier. Her heart rate slowed so it wasn't quite so frantic. Noise. There it was. She wasn't deaf, but as she shakily stood, she knew that she was very much alone.

"Okay," she breathed. "Okay."

She patted herself down, as if making sure she was still whole. Ten fingers. Ten toes. Two eyes. A nose. Ears? Yes, two. Two arms, two legs. Yes, she was all there. She pinched herself, felt the pain, and nodded. Yes, she was real.

She pulled out her phone. The screen lit up brightly when she unlocked it and an excited, slightly hysterical yip escaped her. Light. She had light.

But no service.

"Oh, come on." She held the phone up and began to walk, waving her arm this way and that. "Come on, come on," she muttered.

When she wandered onto a road a few minutes later, she reluctantly slipped her phone back into her pocket. She only had half a charge, and who knew when she would be able to get her hands on a charger. Kneeling down, Emma ran a curious hand over the ground. Her fingers came away covered in mud. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could make out tracks.

The tracks were odd. Far too narrow for a vehicle. It almost looked like a bike track. Once again she felt the track. No treads. So not a bike. A wagon?

Who the hell had wagons anymore?

There were footprints as well, all heading east, and so Emma started to walk. The movement calmed her initially, having a direction, some sort of plan. A purpose. Yet the longer she walked, the more the movement became subconscious. It was as if her mind had been blissfully blank to keep her from panicking, to allow her the ability to think, to find the road.

But she'd found the road.

The road that was in the middle of a forest.

A forest she had never seen in her life.

Why the hell was she in a forest?

She couldn't remember. She searched and searched her mind for an explanation. She remembered Frank Jinks's empty apartment. She remembered the diner. She remembered ordering hot cocoa. She remembered sharing her drink with a boy. Henry. He had said some things that didn't make sense. An odd little town. No visitors. He was a writer. He'd been writing when she'd left.

She'd walked out of the diner, and then she'd turned around.

Then nothing.

Why had she turned around?

Had someone hit her over the head? She felt the back of her head. No bump. She didn't even have a headache. She felt fine. Drugged, maybe?

But in broad daylight? Someone would have seen, even in a sleepy town like . . . what was the name?

Emma stopped walking.

Where had she been? Outside a diner, yes, but _where_? Her heart began to echo in her ears again. _Da dum, da dum, da dum_ . . .

What the hell had happened to her?

She pulled out her phone again and checked for a signal. No dice. With a groan that she refused to believe sounded as pitiful as it did, she shoved the device back into her pocket and looked around her. Trees. Nothing but trees and darkness.

Emma took a deep breath. "Get a grip, Swan," she told herself as she resumed walking.

She walked for miles before she heard voices. It was a low thrum of sound, like a buzz of conversation in a busy restaurant, and she immediately hurried her steps until she was nearly jogging. The darkness began to lessen. She could see spots of faint, glowing light through the trees, and she nearly laughed in relief.

All she needed was a convenience store. She'd even take another roadside diner.

What she got was neither.

As the trees thinned and the road expanded into a sprawl of flat dirt, Emma was greeted with a sight that belonged in a history book. The streets, if you could call them that, were filled with people dressed in their best Renaissance Fair costumes. Men wore loose pants and billowy shirts that had laces at the top instead of buttons. Women were squeezed into corsets, their hips and legs swallowed by layers of cloth and their breasts heaving above incredibly low necklines as they walked.

The air stank of unwashed bodies and filth. A pig trotted by her when she passed a closed clothing stall, and she dodged a charging goat as she passed by what smelled like a bakery. Horses were tied to hitching posts. A few riders passed her, sparing her an odd glance, and the farther into town that she walked, the more people began to stare at her as if she was the one who didn't make sense. Women looked her up and down and sniffed disdainfully. Men leered at her as if they'd found a new toy.

Loud, raucous laughter and shouting echoed from the largest building she could see just at the end of the street. Smoke billowed up from multiple chimneys and dirty windows glowed with warm yellow light. She started toward it. Someone in there could have answers.

A strong hand wrapped around her wrist as she walked by an alley. Emma stumbled only for a second before she planted her feet and yanked her wrist back. "What the hell?"

"You look lost."

The child should have been beautiful. Her hair glowed faintly red in the dim light, and her skin was clear and pale as alabaster. Even her voice was sweet, soft and lulling. But where her eyes were meant to be, there were horrible scars, as if someone had carved out her eyes and then sloppily sewn the lids shut with thick, black twine.

"Don't be frightened, Emma," the girl said.

Emma took a step back. "How do you know my name?"

"I see things."

"How?" The question slipped past her lips bluntly, without thought.

The girl's lips curled and she held up her hands. Emma stumbled back. In the palms of the the girl's hands were eyes. "Magic," the girl said, "but you won't believe it for a long time. You don't believe in much at all, do you, Emma?"

"Listen, kid," Emma's voice shook, "I don't know what game you're playing, but it's not funny. Let's just get you home, okay?"

"Home," the girl repeated. "You've never had a home, have you, Emma?"

Emma swallowed. "Okay, let's—"

"But you've always wanted one," the girl continued. "You'll keep looking even after you've found it." She sighed. "People rarely accept what they deserve, especially when they believe they deserve nothing at all."

"Kid, that's enough."

"You'll believe one day."

"Yeah, in what?"

The girl smiled then, but Emma took no comfort in it. "Everything," the girl said. "You're destined for a great adventure, Emma Swan."

"Look, I don't know what you're talking about." Emma couldn't stop staring at the girl's sewn eyelids. Her stomach churned. She refused to even look at the girl's hands. "I just want to get home."

"You're in the right place."

"I doubt it."

"Perhaps not the right time, but yes, you're in the right place. He's waiting for you."

"What?" Despite all logic—after all, this whole situation was entirely _wrong_ —Emma found herself wanting answers. "He? Who's he?"

"He's been waiting for you," the girl explained. "Even if he does not know it . . . and you him." She suddenly stood straighter and exhaled softly, almost as if relieved, as if her job was complete. "I must go now."

She turned and walked into the shadow of the alley without another word. It took Emma a few long seconds before her feet moved. She stepped deeper into the alley. "Hey, kid! Wait!" She jogged further, but the girl was nowhere to be found.

Emma turned in a slow circle, her breath coming in gasps as she placed her hands on her head. Her fingers curled tightly into her hair to the point of pain. "What the hell is going on?" she whispered.

The tavern. She needed to go get help.

And maybe a drink. A lot of drinks.

The tavern was exactly what she would expect for the movie she was somehow living. Bare but sturdy. Entirely wooden with a thatched roof. The door swung on thick black hinges and the noise that erupted from within hit her with a force that nearly bowled her over. There was music, a man in the back with a fiddle playing what sounded to her like the makings of an Irish drinking song. Half of the tavern began to sing, while the other half were happily immersed in their own loud conversations. Everyone was either shouting, singing, or laughing. There was a long, thick wooden bar in the center of the chaos, manned by a single barkeep who looked like a biker-version of Santa with steel eyes and meaty arms.

Emma marched toward him anyway.

"I need some help," she said, resting her hands on the bar.

The barkeep barely looked up at first. He glanced up and then back to the ale he was pouring before once again looking at her. His gaze stayed fixed then. She waited as he studied her like she was some strange creature he'd never seen, pretending that she didn't have the urge to shrink back and make herself appear smaller.

She straightened her back and glared until he said, "How can I be of service, lass?"

"You can start by telling me where I am."

He cocked an eyebrow. "You're in the Queen's Port." He eyed her red leather jacket, white sweater, and jeans. "I gather you're not from this realm. Can't for the life of me figure out which one, though. Lot of travelers come through, but none lookin' like you, lass."

Emma only latched onto one particular word. "Realm?" she repeated.

"Aye. Which one are ya, from?"

"I-I'm not from a _realm_ ," she said. "I'm from Tallahassee."

The barkeep blinked. "Well then, sounds like you're a long way from home."

He had no idea what she was talking about. Emma knew it. She could see it in his eyes, the blank look of complete stupor as she continued to attempt to explain her situation. He looked at her as though she was alien and frowned at every other word out of her mouth, as if he didn't know what a phone was or a car or what cell reception meant.

She saw the moment when he withdrew, when he began to label her less as lost and more insane. It was similar to the look she'd received from countless foster parents who slowly began to realize that she just wasn't right for them. She didn't fit. She was different.

Finally, she simply said, "Is there anyone here who can help me?"

The barkeep stared at her warily before tossing his head toward the back corner of the tavern. She followed his gaze and immediately found herself staring into piercing blue eyes. "Cap'n Jones," the barkeep said. Emma did not immediately turn back to him to listen. She kept staring at the man in the corner until a thick dark eyebrow cocked arrogantly and a teasing yet unquestionably salacious smirk twisted his lips. Heat flared in her cheeks as she abruptly turned back to the barkeep, who had failed to notice her preoccupation. She just caught the tail end of his words, ". . . most well-traveled man here. I'd be careful, askin' for his help. Never can trust a pirate."

Emma looked back. The sharp blue eyes of Captain Jones met hers instantly. She squared her shoulders even as her stomach flipped. "I'll take my chances," she said.

The moment Emma had walked into the tavern, she had unknowingly been under the strict attention of a particular pirate. Captain Killian Jones of the _Jolly Roger_ had just docked in port only hours ago after a long three-month sail that had left him aching for a stiff drink and the attentions of a beautiful woman. His crew had already taken over the tavern. Williams was playing his fiddle while Smee tried to lead the rest in song, standing on a table and waving his hands about as if he could possibly direct them.

Killian preferred to sit in the back where it was just a bit quieter, where he had a woman on either side of him, one with her hand on his arm and the other with her hand steadily moving up his thigh. He could whisper in their ears promises to come, smell the perfume they'd dabbed behind their ears, all while they each tried their best to claim his attention.

The moment Emma had walked in, he'd forgotten about them.

She was strangely dressed. He'd seen women in trousers before but never had they been so tight. The blue material clung to her like a second skin, giving him an eyeful that bordered on scandalous. Her coat seemed to be made of leather much like his own, but it was bright red and short, the hem just brushing her hips instead of sweeping low to her knees. He watched as she talked with Tom behind the bar, smiling with growing amusement as she steadily began to shake in frustration.

She was lost, that was certain, and so he wasn't surprised when Tom directed her toward him. He was surprised, however, when she met his eyes. A strange yet not unwelcome feeling came over him as her eyes met his. His chest suddenly felt tight and he wanted nothing more in that moment than to have her completely. He'd never felt anything like it. It was more than desire, deeper somehow.

He hated that he couldn't tell the color of her eyes from across the room.

She kept staring at him even as Tom talked, and he couldn't help but arch his brow and smirk playfully. Her answering blush made him chuckle lowly in his throat, and he was so absorbed in her that he didn't notice when both the wenches on his arm left. He sat up straighter when Emma squared her shoulders and began to walk towards him. Well, more of a _march_ , really. It reminded him of his days in the Navy, and he almost gave into the temptation of giving her a salute.

She stopped in front of him and folded her arms over her chest. "You're Captain Jones?"

Her eyes were green, like the sea after a storm. "Aye," he said. "How can I help you, love?"

"I need to get home."

"And where's home?"

She sighed. "Tallahassee."

"Never heard of it. What realm are you from, lass?"

"Realm?" she repeated. "Why do you people keep saying that? There aren't . . . _realms_."

"I'm sorry to break it to you, love, but you're wrong. There are, in fact, many different realms."

"Oh, and I suppose you've been to them all?"

Killian smiled. "I've seen my fair share. I'd love to show you." She scoffed but it only made him like her more. He patted the bench next to him. "No need to stand on ceremony, love," he said. "Sit."

"Funny," she said but she sat nonetheless.

Killian arched an eyebrow in amusement when she straddled the bench and faced him. He took the bottle of rum next to him and poured her a drink. "Have a drink with me," he said. "What's your name, darling?"

"Emma Swan. And you can keep your drink."

"Afraid you won't be able to resist me after a few libations?"

She smirked. "That'll never be a problem."

"You wound me, Swan."

"Something tells me you'll get over it."

Killian grinned. "You're a tough lass, aren't you?" He offered his hand. "Killian Jones, at your service."

Emma took his hand, meaning to shake it and get the pleasantries out of the way, but Killian turned her hand over, stroked his thumb over her knuckles, and then placed a soft kiss on her hand. He relished the blush that she tried to fight but let her yank her hand away and hold it in her lap. He smiled and took another drink. "Tell me, Swan," he said. "How did you come to be in the Enchanted Forest? Did you fall through a portal?"

Emma's stomach sank like an anchor. "Enchanted Forest?" she repeated. "Portal? And you people think I'm insane."

For the first time since meeting her, Killian felt a twinge of annoyance. He had very little tolerance for those who denied what was right in front of them. "Yet here you are," he said. "Listen, love, the only chance you stand of possibly getting back to your realm is with my help. So, I'll ask you again, how did you come to be here?"

Emma stared at him, trying to see a lie, and as if he somehow understood what she was after, Killian met her stare openly and waited. His eyes were even bluer up close, made brighter by his thick dark lashes and the black kohl around his eyes. He looked every inch a swashbuckling pirate in his leather pants and red vest with big brass buttons. His coat was long and black and just managed to hide the hilt of his cutlass that was tied to his waist. When he'd kissed her hand—who did _that_ , anyway?—she'd noticed the heavy rings that adorned his right hand. He even had an earring, a single black bead that matched his raven-black hair.

He looked like a pirate, and she knew that he believed that he _was_ a pirate, but that wasn't what he was asking of her. He was asking much more of her. He was asking that she trust him.

She narrowed her eyes. "Why would you want to help me?" she asked.

"Because while I may be a pirate, I believe in good form. I will do all in my power to return you to your land, Emma."

It was the first time he'd used her name. Not _love_ or _darling_ or _Swan_ , but Emma. She wondered if he thought it would soften her, if he thought the intimacy of a first-name basis would inspire the trust that he asked of her. She met his eyes, searched for the lie, any sort of falsehood, but she found none. Instead of being relieved, she felt the beginnings of panic.

A familiar itch began to crawl over her skin. The urge to run.

Killian grabbed her hand before she could stand. He held her fingers in a gentle but firm grip. She knew that if she tugged, he'd let go. "Try something new for a change, darling," he said. "It's called trust." Her fingers tightened around his, not to hold on but to pull away. "Look at me, Emma," he said softly. "Have I told you a lie?"

Emma didn't want to trust him. The last time she had trusted a man, she had wound up spending eleven months in jail and giving birth to a child that she hadn't allowed herself the blessing to hold. She had sent the child away, hoping to give him or her it's best chance, and praying that she wasn't condemning him to the very same life she'd lived and hated.

And now she was in an entirely different world, a world that she still wasn't sure was real, and she had to decide whether or not to trust a stranger with nothing but his word.

She knew she didn't have a choice.

"I don't know how I got here," she began. "One second I was in my . . . _realm_ ," the word hung awkwardly in the air, "and then the next thing I know, I'm waking up in the woods a few miles from here."

Killian wanted to smile at the revelation. He sensed that Emma Swan was not one to trust lightly, and to know that she had decided to place what little faith she had in him made him feel a kind of pride he had not felt in years. It was the pride of doing the right thing for the right reasons. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

"That is unusual," he said. "Are you sure you didn't fall through a portal? It's a hell of a ride, one you wouldn't likely forget."

Emma huffed. "Even if I knew what that really meant, I know I didn't get here through a . . . a portal. There was this boy—" Killian immediately raised his eyebrows and she scowled, "not like that. He was just a kid. But he had this pen with him. Really old-fashioned. And he said some . . . things."

Killian frowned. "What kind of things?" he asked, smiling in bemusement when Emma unexpectedly blushed and looked down at her hands.

"You're not going to believe me," she said. "It's stupid."

"I highly doubt I would ever find anything about you stupid, love."

Emma bit her cheek to keep from smiling. "He said . . . well, he said that I was a hero, that I . . . was destined for a great adventure . . . and he, he wished me luck."

"That is a curious tale." Killian rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "And you believe that this boy could be responsible for your plight? What of his pen?"

"He was writing. He said he was a writer." Emma frowned. "I left the diner. I remember looking back at him through the window. He smiled at me and then . . . nothing. I woke up here."

"I daresay the boy is your culprit, Swan. This pen . . . it must wield great magic."

"Have you ever heard of anything like it?"

"I'm afraid not, but don't despair yet, Swan. I still have some tricks up my sleeve." He leaned toward her, and it took all of Emma's self-control not to lean away. "There is rumor of a powerful sorcerer who lives not terribly far from here. A week's ride, at most. I would be willing to accompany you on this journey."

Emma's eyes narrowed even as her lips twitched. "In exchange for what, pirate?"

Killian grinned. "A pirate does love his treasure." He tossed his head toward the other end of the tavern where a group of men were gambling at cards. "You help me swindle the lot of them, and you have yourself a deal."

"What makes you think I'd be any good?"

"If there's one thing I gather about you, Swan, it's that I'd be remiss to ever bet against you."

Despite her best efforts, Emma smiled.

* * *

 **Well, there you go. They're off to see a sorcerer. Any guess who that might be? :)**

 **Okay, okay . . . preview, preview . . . who's it gonna be? Hmm . . . how about Emma?**

 **"Oh, so now you're going to be a gentleman?"**

 **Yes, that probably sounds familiar. Since our lovely couple is meeting earlier than canon, I've got to work in those beautiful lines of theirs somehow, don't I? :)**

 **Lots of love,**

 **AC**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: And we're back for another chapter! Thank you again (so very, very much) to every one of you precious cinnamon rolls who have alerted, favorited, and reviewed this story. It's the greatest motivation.**

 **So, we left off with Killian and Emma about to embark on a card-cheating extravaganza. Let's see how they made out!**

 **No, not like that-I see your hopes, but c'mon, we're only 3 chapters in, people! Patience! ;)**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing OUAT. If I did, I only have three words for you: No. Student. Debt.**

* * *

Chapter 3

For supposedly being trapped in another realm, Emma knew she was having too much fun.

Yes, she was fairly terrible at cards, but while she herself was a horrible liar, it did not by any means imply that she couldn't spot a lie. In fact, she prided herself on her ability to tell when someone was lying to her. She always knew. She'd never once in her life been proven wrong.

Well, except the once, but she wasn't going to think about that.

When it came to cards, it was all too easy for her to play her hand to match Killian's. She didn't know exactly how, but they understood each other. Whenever he smirked and flirted with her, she knew that he wanted her to raise. She would flirt back, and he would up the ante in more ways than one. More than once they'd been not-so-politely asked to take their "game" upstairs.

Whenever he simply met her eyes across the table, he wanted her to lose. That stupidly attractive arrogant eyebrow arch of his meant that he didn't want her to bet or raise. None of it made sense to her, how she inherently understood what he wanted of her, but she did. By the end of the night, between the two of them, they had more gold coins than Emma had ever seen, and Killian had added yet another ring to his right hand.

They left the tavern before their poor marks could suspect that they'd been cheated, laughing like idiots into the cool night air. Killian held a half-full bottle of rum in one hand while the other held hers. "You are bloody brilliant, Swan!" he beamed as he swung their hands. "Absolutely amazing!"

Emma laughed breathlessly when he suddenly twirled her like a dancer. "Thanks," she said. "You weren't too bad, yourself."

"You do wonders for a man's ego, love."

"Your ego doesn't need any help from me."

"Aye, but I assure you, there are other parts of me that would love your help."

He gave her that stupid little smirk again, the one that told her that he knew exactly how attractive he was and knew how to use it to his fullest advantage. She imagined that he'd gotten countless women into his bed with just that smirk, and the fact that it made her want to take a step closer to him caused her to take a step back and pull her hand from his.

What the hell was she doing?

Killian frowned. "Swan?"

"So, I helped you." Emma crossed her arms over her chest. "How are you going to help me?"

Killian stopped to stare at her. The green eyes that had just been bright and happy visibly darkened. It was as if she'd placed a wall between them and retreated behind it. Her back stiffened and her smile faded into a hard line.

He hated that it hurt him as much as it did, and his gut reaction was to say something cutting or snide, but he bit his tongue and took a breath. "I'll commandeer a horse tomorrow. As I said, the sorcerer lives roughly a week's journey from here. We'll leave at dawn."

Emma nodded once. "Okay. See you then."

She abruptly turned around and started back toward the tavern. Killian lunged forward to stop her, gently tugging on her arm. "Oi, hang on, now, love. Just where do you think you're going?"

"Back to the inn."

"And pay for a bed with what money?"

Emma glared at him. "I helped you win that money. I'm owed some of it."

She had a point, but he didn't want her to go. "Aye," he agreed. "And so you shall have it." He produced a small purse from his belt, but when Emma went to grab it, he held it away from her. "Tomorrow," he added.

"Then where am I supposed to sleep?"

"On my ship, of course."

Emma laughed. "Yeah, buddy. That's not happening."

Killian nearly rolled his eyes. "Believe it or not, Swan, but that was hardly what I meant to imply. Your virtue is safe with me. I cannot promise the same, however, if you're to insist upon staying at the inn with the rest of my compatriots."

Emma raised her eyebrows. "Oh, so now you're going to be a gentleman?"

"As I said, I believe in good form," he replied. "And I'm always a gentleman."

Emma studied him for long moment, waiting for her lie detector to go off. She waited and waited some more . . . nothing. Killian just stared at her, waiting just as she was, his blue eyes softly entreating yet firm at the same time.

"It's just one night, Swan," he said.

Emma pursed her lips. "Fine."

She hated the way Killian grinned in response, gesturing grandly with a slight bow toward the docks. She scoffed as she walked past him, but Killian didn't mind, jogging to catch up with her with a pleased smile. Emma tried to be subtle once they were at the docks as she attempted to determine which ship belonged to Killian, but the pirate silently preened as they continued to pass ship after ship. She caught him grinning at her out of the corner of her eye, and she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. She looked down at her feet just to be safe, letting her hair serve as a meager shield.

Killian laughed quietly, before taking her hand and pulling her to a stop. "Behold!" he said proudly. "The Jolly Roger."

Emma looked up and couldn't stop her jaw from going slack. She didn't know anything about ships, but there was something about this one that immediately filled her with a sense of appreciation. The lines and sails had an elegant bearing, as if they weren't suspended but floating. The ship itself was navy with bold lines of red and yellow. She smiled.

Killian smirked. "I know," he said simply.

Emma rolled her eyes. "She's pretty," she allowed.

"Aye, that she is." He gestured toward the gangplank. "After you, love."

Though she wasn't thrilled with the idea of having her back to him, she was fairly certain he wasn't going to shove her into the water, and so she boarded the ship with as much confidence as she could muster. Killian chuckled behind her, as if he knew what she was thinking, and that irritated her more than anything.

Once she was on deck, she took a moment to get her feet beneath her. The subtle rock of the ship was different but strangely exciting. She walked to the port rail and carefully placed her hands on the smooth wood. The water lapped playfully at the sides of the boat, and although it was night, the moon was full and the stars were shining, reflecting off the navy water like bright spots of white, winking light.

"Not a bad view, is it, Swan?"

"I've never been on a ship before."

Killian grinned. "You never forget your first." Emma rolled her eyes but said nothing in response, and so after another moment, he said, "Come on, love. Let me show you to your quarters."

He held out his hand, and Emma hesitated before taking it. Killian smirked knowingly, and she hated that she once again had to fight against the blush rising in her cheeks. He led her below deck, carefully descending the ladder before once again offering her a hand to assist. This time, she pointedly ignored it, and he let his hand fall to his side.

Her eyes took in the room. It was larger than she'd expected. She had fully prepared herself for nothing but a hammock strung between beams in the dark underbelly of the ship, but instead she was in a roomy cabin. There was a bookshelf on one wall, half-full but neatly stacked. The desk in the middle of the room was crowded but clean. Maps were stacked neatly in one corner, held in place by a brass paperweight. A beautifully carved wooden box sat on the other corner, and she had to resist the urge to lift the lid to see what lay inside.

Tucked into the wall to her left was a bed just large enough for two if you didn't mind a close cuddle, but she ignored that for a moment. Instead she crossed the room, trailing a hand over the desk as she passed. She stopped in front of four long windows that she figured nearly stretched across the whole bow. The view wasn't idyllic now, docked in port. She only had a view of the next ship moored behind them, but she could only imagine the endless stretch of blue she'd know if they were at sea.

She looked back at the bed and then the maps on the desk. "This is your room," she realized. "You're giving me your room."

"You sound surprised." Killian took a step toward her. "You didn't think I'd stick you in the crew's quarters, did you?" He frowned when she just stared at him in reply. "Honestly, woman. You'd think no one had ever done a kind thing for you in your life."

"Yeah, well, not many have."

Killian's face fell. "I was only joking, love."

Emma awkwardly shoved her hands in her back pockets and shrugged. Killian sensed that any attempt he made to further the conversation would not be well-received, and so he took a step back and said, "I'll leave you to your rest, then."

He only made it two steps before Emma's voice stopped him. "For a pirate, you're being awfully nice to me," she said.

The faint hint of distrust and suspicion in her voice wounded him, but more so for her sake than his. He met her inquiring eyes with a faint smile that Emma thought was the most honest she'd ever seen him. "I wasn't always a pirate, Swan. Now, get some rest. We have a long journey ahead."

* * *

Emma woke with a start, nearly falling out of bed as her momentum carried her forward and her mattress lurched beneath her. Why was the bed moving? She cautiously took in her surroundings. It was still quite dark. Only faint beginnings of grey light illuminated the room. Eager, anxious eyes took in the desk with its maps and the windows that showed something dark churning.

It was the subtle rock of her bed once again that made Emma gasp.

It was _real_.

She'd had the strangest dream of waking up in the woods and finding a Renaissance Fair full of very method actors. She'd cheated at cards with a pirate who had promised to take her home, and then she'd reluctantly taken him up on his offer of a bed. She didn't even know where he had wound up sleeping.

He didn't make sense to her, the pirate. Killian.

Emma didn't claim to be good at many things, but if there was one skill she'd learned—mastered, even—it was the ability to read people, and Killian Jones did not make sense.

 _I'm always a gentleman._ That was what he claimed. She knew it to be strangely true so far. Yet for all of his charm, for all of his witty one-liners and playful innuendos, she saw something dark lurking in him. She wasn't afraid of him, but she wasn't stupid.

Killian Jones was dangerous.

She knew it in her bones, which was what made her next realization that much more painful: She liked him.

The sooner she got home, the better.

Emma was out of bed— _his_ bed—before she could second-guess herself. Not that there was any second-guessing going on. None at all. She was going home, and that was that.

She only had to pull on her boots and jacket before she was ready to go. As she climbed the stairs to the deck, she ran a hand through her hair to try to untangle her limp curls. The crisp salty air hit her square in the face as soon as she was above deck, but she had to smile. She hadn't known how much she'd liked the water until she'd moved to Florida, but this was something else.

The deck was clear. She looked the boat from bow to stern like she expected Killian to magically appear. When he didn't, she walked to the rail much like she had the night before, placing her hands on the surprisingly polished, scrubbed wood, and took a deep breath. She smiled slightly and closed her eyes, listening to the water lap against the hull, until a gruff voice sneered into her ear.

"Oi, I don't remember you bein' part of the crew." She jumped slightly but didn't take a step back. She tensed and fixed the stranger with her best glare. He was no taller than her but burly, with stringy brown hair and a pug nose. His breath smelt like old fish, and she got a good whiff when he leaned closer, "Can't be one of the Cap'n's girls. Never seen him with a blonde. Figure he won't mind if I just . . ."

He reached up, as though he meant to touch her hair, and Emma reacted. She grabbed his wrist, jerked his arm sideways, and then reached up to grab the back of his head with her free hand. She kicked his knee, and as he buckled, she slammed his head into the rail. His nose immediately exploded with blood, and he cursed as he fell onto his back, clutching his rapidly swelling face.

"You bitch!"

He hobbled to his feet, and Emma readied herself for a right hook.

She never got her chance.

Killian was suddenly there, wrapping his left hand around the man's throat and dragging him backwards until his back hit the rail. His feet kicked at the air as Killian shoved him forward until one small push would send him back flipping into the water.

"Mr. Hawkins, I do believe we've had this discussion before." Killian's voice was low and rough. Hawkins gasped when the hold on his throat tightened. "It's bad form to force oneself on a woman." Hawkins choked as he tried to defend himself, even as one hand clutched Killian's wrist. "Sorry, mate. Didn't catch that."

 _He's going to kill him._ The thought spurned Emma to take a step forward. "Hey, that's enough," she said. "I'm fine. Let him go." If anything, her words only made Killian's grip tighten further. Hawkins began to turn an uneasy shade of purple. "Killian!"

At the sound of his name, he looked up. His blue eyes that had so brightly danced as he flirted with her last night were as hard and cold as ice. His lips were set in a thin line, and his jaw was clenched tight. He looked as though he could just as easily turn his anger on her, but Emma knew in her gut that he wouldn't.

So she took another step forward and put her hand on his shoulder, and said, "Killian, let him go."

He paused then said, "So be it."

Killian let go, but not without a little push, and Hawkins tumbled into the sea. Emma rushed to the rail and waited anxiously until Hawkins resurfaced, spluttering and cursing. She turned to Killian. "What the hell? That wasn't what I meant!"

He ignored her. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine, and I had it handled."

"Yes, I saw that."

"I can take care of myself."

"I wasn't being sarcastic. I saw that little move of yours." He suddenly grinned, one of the delighted smiles she'd seen last night. "I knew there was a bit of pirate in you, Swan."

Emma didn't want to smile, but he kept grinning at her, looking as though he'd never seen anything like her and was . . . _entranced_. And so she allowed the smallest of pleased smiles to appear. Killian looked her up and down and asked, "So, ready to go?"

"Yeah." Emma glanced back at the rail. "He's not gonna drown, is he?"

"Only sailor that drowns is a dead one," Killian said. "Someone will fish him out, I'm sure." He put a gentle hand on her back while he gestured toward the dock with the other. "We'd best be going, darling."

Emma did as he asked, ignoring the heat of his hand on her back. Killian followed behind her, thankfully, and so he was oblivious to the troubled look on her face. The last few minutes had only reaffirmed her of two things. One: Killian Jones was undoubtedly dangerous; and two: She very much liked him.

Neither one was a good thing.

She was done with danger, with taking risks. Those actions had never landed her anywhere good. And as for men? Well, that was simply destined to end poorly.

Emma reached up to slip her fingers around the chain that held her swan pendant, the end of the stupidly sentimental keychain that Neal had given her. She did not wear it for him. No, she wore it because of him, as a reminder, a reminder that she couldn't trust anyone. People left her, people betrayed her, people _hurt_ her.

She was only good enough for herself.

And that was all she needed. She was better alone. She was stronger alone. Hadn't she proved that?

She glanced at Killian out of the corner of her eye as he walked beside her. There was no visible trace of the man who had thrown Hawkins overboard. He walked without an ounce of tension, eyes roving through the small crowd absently, observing, and she pretended not to notice when those blue eyes inevitably trailed back to her.

Concern shone in his eyes, but it was muffled, like he knew she wouldn't appreciate the sentiment. His hand would twitch at his side, as if he wanted to place it on the small of her back and be the gentlemen he claimed to always be, but he never made a move toward her. He let her be.

She didn't get it.

Because how could he know her well enough to, well, _know_?

He hadn't even known her for a day.

God, it hadn't even been twenty-four hours since this nightmare started.

Killian pulled her to a stop outside the tavern, and it took Emma a second to recognize the place. Without its boisterous nightly crowd, the tavern looked like nothing but a ramshackle hut. A lonely curl of smoke drifted from a single chimney, and Emma almost wanted to go inside to make sure it was actually the very place she had spent the majority of her night.

It was only when Killian lightly brushed the small of her back as he stepped forward that she noticed the horse.

Just the one.

The animal was loaded with two thick grey blankets and two large saddlebags. The saddle looked hilariously small, and that was when the realization truly sank in that she would have to be sharing it. She looked at Killian, who cocked that ridiculous eyebrow of his, as if waiting for approval, and she said, "So, where's the other one?"

Killian chuckled. "I don't know what horses go for in your land, Swan, but here they're not exactly cheap. One was the best I could do with our winnings."

Emma huffed. "So all that last night was just for this?"

"Nothing slips past you, love," he grinned before holding out a hand and canting his head toward the horse. "You first."

Emma hesitated. What she wouldn't give for a car.

Killian smirked. "You've never ridden before, have you?"

"We don't use horses in my world. Not anymore. We have cars."

"A what?"

"A car, you know? Four wheels. A motor."

Killian blinked. "Sounds like a fine vessel," he said. "Unfortunately, one such car does not exist here, and so you'll have to make due. Come on, Swan." He smiled and offered his hand again. "I promise the beast won't hurt you."

Emma huffed, exasperated with her own nerves. It was just a horse. She set her jaw determinedly, planted her foot in the stirrup, and ignored Killian's hands on her waist as he helped her into the saddle. She laughed breathlessly in surprise once she was astride, her hands clutched around the saddle horn. It was much higher up than she'd thought.

Still on the ground, Killian smirked at her reaction. She was something else, Swan. While she was still distracted, he gracefully swung himself into the saddle behind her, unable to keep from grinning into her hair when she tensed. "Could only afford one horse, huh?" she mocked. "Sure you didn't have an ulterior motive?"

Killian wrapped his arms around her to grasp the reins. "Nothing slips past you, love," he teased again, his lips at her ear. "Perhaps I did want an excuse to be close to you."

Emma ignored the way his breath brushed against her ear and the pool of heat it immediately ignited in her stomach. It only worsened when he urged the horse into a canter and she fell back against solid, laughing chest. "Don't be afraid to hold on, love," he teased. "I won't mind in slightest."

She sat as far away from him as she could until finally her back simply refused to stand up straight. Hesitantly, she relaxed into him, entirely unaware of the surprisingly soft, pleased smile on Killian's face.

* * *

 **I love that pirate.**

 **Writing Killian post-Lieutenant but pre-Hook has been an interesting challenge, but fun nonetheless. Anyhoo, our OTP is off on their first adventure! Just what (who) will they find?**

 **Alrighty, who gets our preview line? Let's see . . . oh, I know! Emma!**

 **"Listen, Dumbledore, I came here for help . . ."**

 **See you Friday!**

 **Lots of love,**

 **AC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Notes: As per usual, I'd like to start of by thanking everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. You guys are the best! Second, this is where we finally get some answers as to WTF is going on and setting the stage for our first big (big, big, big) adventure for our favorite couple!**

 **So, without further ado . . .**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing OUAT. Pinky swear. I'm just having a bit of fun.**

* * *

Chapter 4

"You're awfully quiet, Swan."

Emma had no clue how long they'd been riding. All she knew was that her thighs burned fiercely from sitting for hours in a saddle, and she couldn't shift to try to alleviate even some of the tension because the smallest of movements caused her to press closer to Killian. It was maddening. She felt trapped.

Every time he spoke, his lips were right at her ear, his breath teasing her hair. It had made her shiver more than once, which only made him hold her closer, which in actuality only made her desire to escape grow exponentially. She'd never been so immediately drawn to anyone. Even Neal.

And look how that had ended.

"Swan?"

Emma cleared her throat. "I'm fine."

Killian didn't believe her. His brows furrowed. "I don't believe that," he said.

"You hardly know me well enough to judge." When he didn't reply, she asked, "How much further will we go today?"

"Not long." Killian looked up at the sky. "There's enough light yet to make it to that far ridge."

Emma felt more than saw him nod toward the ridge in the distance. She silently contained her groan at the thought of being in the saddle for what she judged to be at least another couple of hours. "We could stop for a rest, if you'd like," Killian said suddenly.

"No." She shook her head. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can go home."

"And just what is it that you're so anxious to get back to?" he asked. "Or should I say who?"

Emma scowled. "There's no one."

"You seem vexed."

"That's because I'm with you."

"And here I thought we were getting on quite well."

"Yeah, well, you thought wrong."

Killian said nothing in response. In fact, he did not say a word until three hours later when they finally made it to the ridge and dismounted. Killian swung onto the ground with ease. He offered her a hand to help her down, but Emma ignored it. She'd been forced to be far too close to him all day. She needed her space.

Unfortunately, she seriously underestimated the soreness in her legs, and as soon as she had both feet planted on the ground, her knees buckled. Killian was quick to catch her, his hands warm on her waist. "Easy, love," he said, although the usual playfulness attached to the endearment was absent.

Emma hated the guilt she felt. She met his eyes, and her guilt intensified when she noticed he seemed to have closed himself off. She knew the look well enough. She saw it every day in the mirror. "Thanks," she muttered.

The apology did nothing to assuage her guilt. It sounded too insincere, even if she meant it.

"Why don't you go collect wood for a fire?" he said. "Night will be upon us before you know it."

She gladly took the excuse to leave, and as soon as she had ventured far enough so that Killian was invisible, she collapsed at the foot of a tree. Her legs ached. Her ass ached. Her back ached. She hated horses. Why did she have to deal with horses? We couldn't she just be back in Tallahassee, where people traveled by cars and trucks and hell, she'd even take a scooter or a pair of rollerblades at this point.

But none of that existed in this realm.

God, she was in another realm, wasn't she?

The thought continued to baffle her. This stuff wasn't supposed to be real. She was in the Enchanted Forest. Wasn't that something out of _Snow White_? Fairytales weren't real. They just weren't.

But here she was, in the Enchanted Forest with a pirate captain, travelling to see a sorcerer.

Because, obviously, that's what you did when you were in fairytale land.

On a whim, she pinched her arm. Hard.

Yep. Real.

"Crap," she muttered.

She glanced back to where Killian was making camp. She didn't want to go back, but she knew she couldn't linger. He would come after her. She knew he would.

It disturbed her to know that he would look for her. No one had ever looked for her. When she ran away from countless foster homes, no one looked. Even the police gave up after a day or two. After all, she was just another runaway.

But Killian would look, and she had a horrible feeling that he'd find her.

Emma didn't know how to process that. It was like this morning when they were on the _Jolly Roger._ He had nearly killed a man in her defense. He would have if she hadn't stopped him. No one had ever done that for her before. She was against murder, of course. She never wanted anyone to die because of her, even if it was in her defense, but no one had ever shown her even half as much concern. That absolutely terrified her. He didn't even _know_ her.

Emma hauled herself to her feet and began to collect wood. She picked up as much as she could carry, including one thin, fallen limb that she managed to drag behind her with one hand. There was no need for Killian to come look for her. She made more than enough noise.

Killian's lips twitched and his eyebrows rose when she dramatically dropped her gathered wood next to his recently made fire pit. "Excellent work, Swan," he praised.

"Ha, ha," she snipped as she wiped bits of bark from her sweater. "And what have you done?"

"Aside from enjoying a bit of peace?" he quipped. "There's a stream a few yards south of us. I refilled our canteens."

He offered her one, and she took it with a muttered, "Thanks."

Killian got a fire started while she unloaded the bags from the horse. One was full of food like dried meat and fruit that reminded Emma of trail mix. The other bag held a spare change of clothes for Killian, a compass, a map, and small purse full of gold. Emma rubbed her thumb over the face of a coin.

It reminded her of the watches she'd retrieved for Neal. She had never been someone who wanted flashy or shiny things. The other girls in her foster homes had always talked about fancy jewelry and riches, as if something shiny would make them important or worth noticing. Emma had thought of the bigger picture. She'd wanted parents. She'd wanted someone to want her, and if someone, by a stroke of luck, _did_ want her, she needed to know that it was because of _her_. Emma.

She dropped the coin back into the bag.

Killian had a small fire going when she sat on the ground next to him with the bag of food. "I would've slipped a least one coin," he said as he took a handful of the trail mix.

"Pirate."

He smiled, unrepentant. "Aye, love. That I am."

She rolled her eyes and stared at the crackling fire. "I don't steal," she said. "Not anymore."

Killian's brows rose. His first instinct was to laugh. The idea that Emma had wild past delighted him. He _knew_ there was a bit of pirate in her, after all. Yet her declaration wasn't made in jest. She spoke softly but firmly, her eyes darting to the ground briefly, as if ashamed.

He didn't like it at all.

"Tell me about your realm," he said, noting how her shoulders relaxed slightly. "I imagine it must be quite different to the Enchanted Forest."

Emma let out a very unladylike snort that made him grin. She glanced at him, a small smirk on her lips. "This is like something of a fairytale," she said. "I used to read stories like this as a kid. Pirates and knights and princesses." She shook her head.

"Does that make you the princess in this tale, then?"

"I'm no princess."

"Pity. You certainly have the beauty of one."

She looked at him appraisingly, as if she wasn't sure he was teasing or serious, and Killian only smirked in response. "So, your realm," he said. "What's so grand about it that makes you so desperate to return?"

"Cars," she answered immediately. "And take-out."

"You mentioned that before," he said. "Car. What the bloody hell is a car?"

"It's a mode of transportation," Emma explained, shaking her head slightly at the thought of explaining something as commonplace as a car. "It can go very fast. You can travel hundreds of miles in just a few hours."

Killian blinked in astonishment. "Really?" he asked. "That sounds . . . well, bloody magnificent, if I'm honest. You must find our progress terribly slow."

Emma shrugged, trying and failing not to look sheepish. "Look, I'm not ungrateful for what you're doing, Killian," she said. "Thank you, for helping me."

He smiled, and she felt her cheeks warm. His grin in response was an innuendo in itself, and she spoke before he could make her blush darken. "So, we have these things called _movies_ . . ." she began.

Emma spent the next hour talking about everything that she could think of about her world. She tried to explain televisions and phones and the Internet. Killian didn't understand hardly a word, but he enjoyed hearing her talk about "Florida" and "Thai food" and something called a "DeLorean."

When Emma finally paused after attempting to describe a wizard named Marty McFly, she huffed cutely, embarrassed, and Killian said, "Quite the magical realm you're from, Swan."

"Magic?" She shook her head. "No, there's no magic. Magic isn't real."

"Perhaps not in your world, love. But here, I assure you, it is very real."

Emma looked away, turning to stare worriedly into the fire. "I guess I need that to be true," she said. "I am going to see a sorcerer, after all."

"There are great rumors of his skill and power," Killian said. "Tales far older than myself. I am sure that he will have the answers that you seek. If not, then I suppose we shall just have to find another way."

"You'd do that?"

"Aye."

"Why?"

Truthfully, Killian did not know. He considered her question seriously while he hid behind his favorite smirk. Why _would_ he go so far out of his way to help one woman? She was lovely, this Swan, certainly. She was entirely unlike any woman he had ever met. Naturally. Yet women came and went. He knew that, preferred it, even. His home was the sea.

"Perhaps I'm hoping that if you stay with me long enough, you won't want to leave at all," he flirted.

Green eyes rolled. "You're terrible."

"You know, most men would be put off by your disparaging comments, but I love a challenge."

Emma shook her head, fighting a smile. She couldn't give him the satisfaction that she did, in fact, find him charming. "I'm going to bed," she said as she moved over to her blanket.

"If you want company, just let me know, love."

" _Goodnight_ , pirate."

"Sweet dreams, princess."

The following days fell into a pattern much like their first. They would rise with the sun and ride until midday, where they would stop to allow the horse to rest while they had lunch. Then it was back on the horse until an hour or so before sunset, where they would make camp for the night. Emma gathered the firewood, Killian stoked the fire, and they both exchanged stories for little reason other than to pass the time.

Emma explained her job as a bail bonds person, a job that Killian found interesting and, silently, quite telling. She regaled him with stories of her funnier jobs. A man spending stolen money at a place called Las Vegas. A "soccer mom" who tried to run while at her son's game only to be hit in the head by a ball kicked by none other than her child. His favorite was a man who dressed as a woman in an attempt throw off suspicion. Emma caught him at his preferred lingerie store, but not before he tried to flee in nothing but his knickers.

Killian returned the favor by offering a few tales of his own. He wove great stories full of adventure. There were sword fights to the death, battles on the high seas, and races to treasure long-forgotten. He mentioned his long-running rivalry with Blackbeard, which led Emma to question his actual existence, as he was a legend in her world, an assertion that only caused Killian to exclaim, "And I'm not? That's bloody ridiculous. He's not half the pirate I am!"

But Emma had laughed in response, and so he hadn't minded so much then.

On their sixth day, however, things took a turn, and Killian wasn't certain as to why. He'd told Emma that they should reach the sorcerer by midafternoon, and she had hardly spoken a word to him since. She retreated into herself, and he felt as though he was scaling a wall just to glean even the slightest of glances. He hated the way she was stiff in the saddle like she had been the first day of their journey. It was as though he had done something wrong, but Killian was positive that he had done nothing to incur Emma's cold silence.

The result left him in a foul mood.

When the trees finally parted to reveal a small cabin tucked in a meadow, he abruptly swung onto the ground, suddenly feeling the need for space as well. Emma watched him with confused eyes and a slight frown. "This is it?" she asked.

"Aye," he said simply. He tugged on the reins and the horse came to a stop. Wordlessly, he offered her a hand, which she accepted. However, as soon as she was on the ground, he dropped her hand like he hadn't spent the past week gallantly kissing her knuckles or teasingly tugging her to him.

"Hey," she said as she followed him toward the cabin. She eyed the small corral filled with sheep and the smoke twirling into the sky from the chimney. "Are you okay?"

"I'm perfectly alright, Swan. Now, I'm not exactly sure just what it is that we're walking into, so let me do the talking, hmm?"

Just as he raised his hand to knock on the door, it swung open to reveal an old, grey-haired man. He wore plain clothes under a long red cloak that had faded with age but was no less elegant. Sharp but kind eyes lit up in pleasant surprise at the sight of them. "Ah," he greeted. "I wasn't expecting you until later this evening." He looked at Killian. "You're just as adept at navigating on land as you are at sea, Captain."

Killian's hand drifted toward his sword. "How do you know me, sorcerer?"

"Oh, I know a great many things." He glanced pointedly at Killian's straying hand. "There will be no need of that," he said. "I assure you, I mean you and lady no harm." Shuffling out of the doorframe, he motioned inside his cabin. "Won't you come in?"

He didn't wait for them to answer. The sorcerer moved toward the fireplace, grabbing a thick cloth on his way from the table. He lifted a kettle from the flames. "I was just making some tea," he called over his shoulder. "Would you like a cup?"

Emma cautiously walked into the cabin. "Sure," she said. "Thanks."

"There are biscuits on the table. Help yourself."

Killian eyed the one-room cabin warily. There was no aspect about the dwelling that seemed in any way magical. There was a very plain bed tucked into a corner to match the equally plain, if sturdy table and chairs in the middle of the room. Bits of straw decorated the floor. A discarded broom leaned next to the door.

"You're a sorcerer?" he asked.

The sorcerer looked up from the table where he carefully poured tea into three cups. "I apologize if I do not measure up to your expectations, Captain," he said. "I have never been one to desire much. It surprises most to learn that we actually require very little to be happy."

He offered a cup to Emma. "Please, have a seat, Miss Swan."

"How do you know my name?"

"Oh, I've been told a great deal about you, m'dear," he said as he settled noisily into a chair with a huff. "You're quite important."

Emma scoffed and set down her tea without taking a sip. Silently, Killian was glad. Who knows what the man might have slipped into it. "I don't have time to listen to this," Emma said. She stood sharply, shoulders tense. "I'm not—"

"Important?" the sorcerer repeated. "You know, in all my years, in all the many realms I've traveled, I've never met anyone who wasn't important."

Emma scoffed. "Listen, Dumbledore, I came here for help, not pretty words to make me feel better about my shit life. Rumor is that you can get me back to my realm. Are you going to help me or not?"

The sorcerer leaned back in his chair. He studied her patiently as if he was a parent waiting out a tantrum. Emma scowled, refusing to cower despite the faint flicker of guilt that she felt. Killian finally broke the silence, his boots thudding heavily on the hard-packed dirt floor as he came to stand next to Emma. "You heard the lady, mate," he said. "Do you have an answer to our problem, or shall we seek a solution elsewhere?"

The sorcerer eyed them before he sighed and withdrew a wand from his cloak. "Very well," he said simply. He flourished the wand with a slight wave, and an ornate door suddenly appeared in front of the fireplace. Emma stiffened at the sight, staring wide-eyed at the very solid door. She felt Killian's hand clamp tightly onto her shoulder as if he thought she might vanish on the spot.

She ignored the comfort she felt at his touch.

"What the bloody hell is that?" Killian demanded.

"It is a portal to her realm," the sorcerer said. "The Land Without Magic."

"Sounds about right," Emma mumbled as she stared at the door. It was an elegant piece of artwork. That's what it looked like to her, art. It wasn't an ordinary door. The wood itself seemed to shine. The frame was intricately carved with markings that were too uniform not to be a language yet it all looked like nothing but pretty chips and patterns in the wood. The top of the door held a bright blue mantle woven with gold that glowed faintly with unquestionable power.

She took a tentative step toward the door.

"Swan," Killian warned.

Emma kept her eyes on the door. "I just walk through?" she asked, dubiously. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"Swan, think about this." Killian took her arm that reached out to grasp the knob. "You only have his word where that leads."

"He's not lying."

"How would you know?"

"I always know when someone's lying to me," she said. "Call it a superpower." She glanced at the sorcerer. "He's telling the truth."

Killian let her arm slip from his grasp as she reached once again for the door. Emma wrapped her hand around the knob. It was real. It felt real. God, all of this was _real_. She thought that she had come to this very realization too many times in the past week. Yet it was only now, with her hand on a door that had appeared from nothing, that she well and truly believed the life she'd lived recently was real. The Enchanted Forest was real. Magic was real. Killian was real.

All of this . . . it was real and it was happening and Emma abruptly felt terrified of opening the door. What would happen? Would she suddenly blink into existence back in Maine? And for the love of God, why couldn't she remember that damn town?

She was missing something. There was more to this.

But did it matter if she could go home?

Emma jerked the door open before she could hesitate a second longer. She gasped, prepared for some sort of reaction, yet nothing changed. She still stood in the sorcerer's cabin. Killian was still at her side. She could smell the tea the sorcerer had made and hear him munching on a biscuit.

But through the door, there was movement, and the scene looked unmistakably like Victorian London.

Horses pulled carriages on cobblestone streets. Men wore suits while women were covered neck to toe in thick frocks and lace. The scene was positively bustling if silent. She saw mouths moving and kids banging on buckets like drums but not a sound reached her ears.

Emma shut the door in shock, and it disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. "What the hell was that?" she demanded as she spun to look at the sorcerer. "That's not where I'm from."

"I assure you, it is."

"Yeah, like a hundred years ago."

"Three hundred, to be exact."

"Well, fix it!"

"I'm sorry, but even I can only do so much."

"What do you mean?"

"It is not simply a matter of you being in a different realm, Miss Swan. You are also out of your time."

Emma felt her stomach drop as she remembered the strange, terrifying eyeless girl she'd met at the Queen's Port. _Perhaps not the right time, but yes, in the right place. He's waiting for you._

She looked at the sorcerer. "You're saying I traveled in _time_? That's impossible."

"Yes," the sorcerer agreed. "Quite."

"Then how the hell am I here?"

"I don't know."

* * *

 **Whelp, there it is. More explanations to come! But at least Emma's finally accepted she's in the Enchanted Forest! (Took her long enough, right?) The denial is strong in this one.**

 **Okay, chapter preview award goes to . . . Killian! - "You've got me."**

 **Yeah, she does.**

 **See you next Friday!**

 **-AC**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Notes: Heyy! Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and alerted! You're awesome.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Not mine. I'm just having fun.**

* * *

Chapter 5

"Isn't that fascinating?" the sorcerer continued as he grabbed another biscuit. "I find I'm quite fond of not knowing. Keeps me on my toes, as they say." He nibbled on the end of a biscuit. "Please, sit," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "I imagine you have many questions."

"Yeah, you could say that," Emma snapped. "What the hell do you mean I'm out of my time?"

"Just that, Miss Swan," he said. "Somehow, you have fallen backward in time."

Killian held up a hand. "Hang on," he said. "I thought you said that travelling through time was impossible?"

"Yes."

"Well, obviously it's possible, otherwise Emma wouldn't be here."

"Quite."

"Then there must be a way to send her back. Doors open both ways, mate."

"Yes, I suppose they do," the sorcerer agreed. "This door, however, I fear is locked."

"Locked?" Emma strode forward and placed both palms flat on the table. "What do you mean locked? Unlock it."

"Some things are beyond my power. I'm only an apprentice, after all."

Emma frowned. She stared at the sorcerer, eyes narrowed. Something he'd said made her brain itch. The man could create a portal with a flick of a wand. How much more complicated could time-travel really be? Wait. An apprentice. He was only an _apprentice_.

"You're kidding me," she said. "You're the sorcerer's apprentice?"

He smiled. "Yes."

"As in Merlin?"

"The very same."

"Merlin?" Killian repeated. "He's nothing but a legend."

"I assure you, Captain, he is very real."

"Well, where the bloody hell is he, then?"

"Unavailable, I'm afraid." The apprentice leveled a look at Emma that she didn't understand. It was a strange mixture of knowing and curiosity, and perhaps, even the smallest sense of suspicion. Then the old man blinked, and he smiled kindly as he rose from his chair. "Fortunately, however, he told me that this day would come. That you, Emma, would arrive on my doorstep in search of a way back to your time. I was asked to give you this."

He walked to an old trunk that sat at the end of his bed. Withdrawing his wand once again, he gave it a single, sharp flick. The sound of dozens of tumblers falling into place filled the little cabin as the trunk glowed white brightly but briefly. The lid opened with a quiet whine and the sorcerer bent with a huff to rifle around in the contents. Emma watched with wide eyes as the old man's arm continued to sink into the depths of the chest. Surely the chest wasn't that deep?

It was almost as if it was magically bigger on the inside.

"Ah!" the apprentice finally grunted. "Here it is." He pulled out an object from the chest. Emma only caught a flash of gold before it was hidden by his robes. "Forgive the mess," he said. "I haven't had the time to reorganize my chest in decades." He straightened up, his back creaking as he did so, which caused him to huff in annoyance as he walked back to the table. "Here," he said, setting the object on the table. "This belongs to you."

"And hourglass?" Killian said. "How is that supposed to help her?"

"I don't know."

"Helpful."

Emma reached forward to touch the hourglass. Much like the door the apprentice had created, the hourglass was of equal craftsmanship. The two glass orbs were thin and delicate. Gold spun in thick rope-like handles to surround the hourglass. She frowned as she tapped the top globe filled with sparkling blue sand. Not a single grain fell.

"Why isn't it moving?" she said. "Hourglasses measure time. This one's . . . frozen."

"Yes, curious, isn't it?" the apprentice leaned forward to peer at the hourglass as though he'd never seen it before. "Time exists in a loop around you, Miss Swan."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that, at some point, you will return to your own time."

"How?"

"That, m'dear, I do not know."

"Then what use is this thing?" She tapped the hourglass again, but the grains remained frozen. "I need to go home."

"And you will. It is simply, well," he smiled slightly, "a matter of time." The apprentice reached into the pockets of his cloak. "However, if there comes a time where you wish to return to your realm, despite the different era, I will give you this."

He held out his hand. In his palm was a bean that sparkled like a clear gem. Killian's eyes widened. "That's a magic bean," he said. "You can travel to whatever realm you wish with one of those."

"Yes," the apprentice nodded. "And they are growing to be increasingly rare these days. Very few giants are willing to place their trust in humans." He placed the bean into Emma's hand. "I am willing to extend that trust to you, Miss Swan."

Emma closed her hand around the bean. It was slightly warm to the touch and a light, heady feeling rushed through her. "Uh, thanks," she said. She glanced at the hourglass. "Guess that's it then."

She stood, the bean in one hand and the hourglass in the other. Killian placed a hand on her back as he led her to the door, a fact that both annoyed and soothed her. She didn't like the idea of needing his comfort just as much as she appreciated the warmth of his hand. Once they were outside she looked at the surrounding trees and blue sky with new eyes. This was it. It was real.

She couldn't go home.

This was it for her, then. The Enchanted Forest. The Renaissance Fair. This was it.

Emma had never been more terrified in her life.

"Miss Swan."

Killian's hand on her back flexed as she turned around. The apprentice stood in his doorway, looking like a genial old farmer with the exception of his sharp eyes. "Perhaps you could indulge me with a question of my own," he said.

"Yeah?"

"Just how did you come to be here?"

"What, your boss didn't tell you?"

"Believe it or not, he actually tells me very little."

Emma sighed. She hesitated only a moment before answering. What harm could it do? "There was a kid," she said. "He had this pen. One second I'm there, the next I'm here. Why?"

The sorcerer smiled slightly. "An old man's curiosity."

Emma's eyes narrowed. There was a nagging feeling in her mind that the man knew more than he was telling. He knew about the pen. Did he know the boy, then?

"What do you know about it?" she asked.

"Nothing that will help you, I'm afraid."

He wasn't lying. Part of Emma wanted to push for answers. The other part, the part that she knew she would give in to, wanted to run. So when Killian pressed gently on her back to urge her to move, she did not fight him. She went straight for their horse. She placed the hourglass in one of their saddlebags, but slipped the bean into her jacket pocket, zipping it closed.

Killian was quiet as they both climbed into the saddle. There wasn't a hint of flirtation as he reached around her to grab the reins. He turned the horse sharply and immediately spurred the animal into a canter. They rode hard and fast until Emma was sure the horse would keel over, and it was then that Killian abruptly dropped onto the ground. He led the horse at a sedate, almost contemplative place, leaving Emma alone in the saddle with her thoughts.

Her most prevalent thought, the one that she inevitably came back to, was what the hell was she supposed to do now?

She had no way to go home. Yes, she had a magic bean. Because of course, those were real now. Magic beans. Magic. That was a thing.

Funny. She literally had a magical solution to her problem, and even that wasn't enough to fix things completely. Because, yes, she could use the bean to go back to her world, the Land Without Magic, but it wouldn't be her world. Not really. She would be living three hundred years in the past, and that was truly a different world all in itself.

It left her with her only option. Staying. Here. In the Enchanted Forest Renaissance Fair.

What the hell was she to do _here_?

What would she do for money? She doubted that a bail bonds person was needed or wanted, and if the position was open, she had a feeling she would be fighting against three centuries of backward sexism. Women here were expected to stay at home, marry, and have children.

Yeah, cross her off that list. That wasn't happening.

She sure as hell wasn't going to whore, and she definitely was not going to steal.

She couldn't live here. It was that simple.

Which, of course, only meant that she had to find another way home.

Time travel was supposed to be impossible, but here she was. Obviously, it was possible. Screw the damn sorcerer's apprentice—don't think she hadn't seen that broom by the door, she'd seen _Fantasia_ —he'd said that she would go back, didn't he? He just didn't know how, or when, and on that note, she believed him.

But he knew something about that pen. Maybe she could find it.

Killian stopped walking when they reached the very same place they had camped last night. Emma mechanically slipped from the horse, giving the animal a gentle pat on the neck as she tried to come up with a plan to find the pen. She'd simply need to start asking questions.

She thought about returning to the tavern as she gathered wood for the fire. Perhaps there she could find some answers. Someone had to know something about magical pens, right? This was a land of magic. Surely a magical pen wasn't the craziest thing she could be searching for.

"You're not going to make this easy, are you?"

Emma's eyes snapped toward him. Killian recognized the look. She was tense like a wild animal ready to bolt. "What do you mean?" she asked.

"This, being trapped here," he said. "You're not just going to accept it."

"How can I?" Emma demanded incredulously. "This isn't my home. I don't belong here."

"Well, why not? Why not make a new home? Here."

"And do what? Honestly, what can I do here? I have nothing other than the clothes on my back and an hourglass that doesn't work."

"You've got me."

"Oh, really? Don't you have a ship to get back to?"

"Aye." Killian nodded and then added, quietly, "You could come with me."

He studied her reaction. She opened her mouth like she wanted to laugh. Her lips were curled ever so slightly, as if she was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to smile and say it was all a joke. He met her gaze evenly, openly, and watched those pink lips fall slack. Her green eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in a strange mixture of suspicion and confusion.

She didn't trust him. He knew that well enough. It was likely wise of her to keep him at a distance. He was a pirate, after all. But there was something about her, this Swan, that made him remember the lieutenant he used to be, that honorable man who seemed so far in the past that if Killian were to look, it would be nothing but a blur.

When the seconds continued to pass without a response, he continued, infusing his voice with such persuasiveness that Emma very nearly believed him on the spot. "I can show you this realm, Swan. I can show you things you've only seen in dreams. Islands. Great cities. There is a whole world out there, love. A world where you are just as new and strange as the very air you breathe. This place is not your home, but perhaps it can be a fresh start."

Emma blinked. A breathy, hesitant laugh escaped her as her brain struggled to accept the man in front of her. He was telling the truth. He meant it. He _meant_ it.

"Your crew . . ."

"Will do as I say," he said firmly.

"You would . . . no, I can't." She shook her head. "I'm not going off on some wild adventure with some guy I just met." Her voice was harsh. "Not again."

Killian frowned. "Again?"

Dammit, she should've just kept her mouth shut. "It doesn't matter," she said. "It's not a mistake I'm making again."

"Mistake?"

Emma closed her eyes briefly. "He was a thief. I was a thief. He stabbed me in the back. I went to jail. End of story."

"You loved him."

"No."

Killian didn't believe her. She could see it in his eyes and that subtle arch to his eyebrow. It was placating, and she hated it. She watched him warily as he stood and walked over to where she sat on a thick, fallen log. He straddled the makeshift bench instead of sitting next to her like a normal person. She forced herself to appear unaffected as she turned to look at him.

Killian didn't say anything immediately. He simply looked at her. There was that wall again. He was beginning to understand what that meant, what it was there to do. Protect her from the world, from people who would hurt her. Her eyes were guarded but challenging. Oh, she was ready for a fight alright. Backed into a corner.

She still didn't trust him.

He'd have to work on that.

"I would never leave you in a prison, Swan," he said. "A woman as beautiful and spirited as you does not belong in a cage."

 _Run_.

Emma needed to run. She needed to leave, to get away—from this camp, the Forest, and especially Killian Jones. He . . . said things. Things that no one had ever said to her. Pretty things. Meaningful things. _Honest_ things.

And it was too much, because she desperately wanted to believe him.

"I-I'm going to bed," she said quickly, abruptly standing and retreating to the other side of the fire where she'd laid her blanket.

Killian watched her retreat to the other side of the fire. She was as far away from him as she could possibly get, a fact that he noted with a sense of grim satisfaction. It meant that he was right. That wall of hers was meant to keep out pain. It was meant to push people away before she could get her heart broken.

Yet if her heart could be broken, it meant that it still worked.

Perhaps his feelings were not entirely one-sided, after all.

* * *

Emma couldn't sleep.

Her body was exhausted. She wasn't even sure she could feel her legs. She felt like a lead weight lying on the ground. Even turning her head took a herculean effort, and so she lay awake staring at the stars.

She'd never really noticed them much. Stars. Not like this, untouched by city lights and smog. They were bright. Truly. Billions of little balls of light. Instead of looking like dull glass, here they were brilliant diamonds.

Perhaps the Enchanted Forest wasn't all bad.

But no, she couldn't think that. That was dangerous. She couldn't stay. She _had_ to get home.

Emma turned her head just slightly. Killian was next to her, although there was a respectable distance between them. He had insisted on it the very first night, despite his reassurance that should she desire it, he would happily move closer.

He liked her. She wasn't blind. She could see it. He did little to hide it. She caught him staring at her when he thought she wasn't looking. For all of his flirtation, there was rarely any heat in his stare. Instead there was curiosity, a desire to know her, to understand her. Only when she met his stare did it morph entirely to lust. That little smirk of his would appear in an instant and his eyes would burn teasingly with dirty, unspoken promises.

Killian Jones was dangerous. She'd known it the moment she met him, but now she realized that he was dangerous for entirely different reasons. It wasn't the fact that he was a pirate. No, Killian Jones was dangerous because he made her feel things.

She felt the urge to trust him. She felt as though he might understand. She felt as though if she lowered her walls for even a moment, there would be no going back. He would be there to stay.

That was it, really. Emma felt like he might stay.

No one ever stayed.

She'd learned that over and over again. Everyone left her. Everyone eventually gave up on her. Everyone eventually realized that she wasn't good enough.

Killian would be no different.

She repeatedly convinced herself of that over the next five days. Killian tried to get her to open up. He asked about her family. He asked about her childhood. He asked about past lovers. All basic questions that should not require complicated answers. And Emma supposed that her answers weren't complicated. No, they were devastatingly simple. She had no family. Her childhood had been unbearably lonely. And lovers? Aside from Neal and a handful of one-nighters, she'd been alone.

No one's life should be so easily summed up.

After the second day, Killian stopped asking, and they travelled the rest of the way to the Queen's Port in silence. They arrived at the tavern just before evening, and Emma was struck by the thought that she had already been in the Enchanted Forest for two weeks. It wasn't so long a time. Her mind knew that. Yet when she rode into town on the back of a horse, she couldn't help but feeling the smallest sense of belonging. It wasn't like before, when she had wondered into town looking for cell reception without a clue. On the back of a horse, she almost felt like she knew what she was doing.

But then she was sliding off the saddle, and she suddenly felt small again. Her jeans were stiff and sweaty. Her white sweater was more of a beige. Even her jacket was covered in dust. She'd dunked her head into a creek yesterday but her hair still smelled briny. She felt like a street rat, and the small port town suddenly felt like it might swallow her.

Killian watched her with disappointed eyes as she grabbed her hourglass and patted her jacket pocket. Checking her belongings. She was leaving. He'd known nearly the moment he had asked her to come aboard the _Jolly_ that she would run. Those walls of hers had climbed impossibly higher. There was no scaling them. Not in five mere days.

So when she turned to him with her squared shoulders and her lifted chin and her distant eyes, Killian smiled half-heartedly and asked, "So what next, love?"

"I'm going to find a way back home," she said.

"The apprentice said it was impossible."

"But he said I would go back. I have to, I think. Otherwise the universe explodes or something."

"Well, we wouldn't want that."

"No." Emma's lips twitched as she fought a smile.

"This quest to return home," he said, raising an eyebrow, "I assume you have a place to start?"

"The pen. There's a piece of this whole freaky puzzle that's missing, and I'm pretty sure that pen has something to do with it." She sighed and looked over his shoulder at a passing sailor headed toward the docks. "I know it's a long shot, but—"

"I have every bit of faith in you, Swan," Killian said softly. "If there is any way for you to return home, you will find it. However," he paused and took a cautious step forward. Emma tensed. She hesitated to even breathe because he was so close. Her eyes met his—honestly, she should have known better—and she couldn't look away. "It would be remiss of me if I did not ask you again . . . sail away with me, Swan."

Emma's throat constricted. Her tongue felt dry. She swallowed, hoping to moisten her tongue enough to answer, but she only succeeded in making herself lightheaded. Right. Breathing. She should breathe.

God, she actually couldn't breathe.

She forced herself to take a slow, steady breath. It came out shaky, and she ignored it. Killian just kept staring at her, too-blue eyes glowing with faint hope and something else that she couldn't name. It scared her. He scared her.

"I _can't_ ," she breathed. "I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Because I can't take a chance that I'm wrong about you."

Killian nodded and managed a weak smile. "I hope you find what you're looking for, Emma." He took her hand and placed a lingering kiss on her knuckles. "Goodbye, darling."

Emma watched him leave, hating every step away from her that he took, but she did not call him back.

It wasn't until Killian had disappeared into the crowd that Emma felt the weight in her pocket. She frowned as she felt both pockets of her jacket. The bean was safe. Yet her other pocket was bulging. When she withdrew a familiar leather purse, she had to smile. "Pirate," she mumbled fondly.

Then she shook herself. No fondness. That was not allowed. She'd made her decision, after all. She'd stick by it. She was better off on her own.

It was with this knowledge firmly in mind that she walked into the tavern. The establishment was just as rowdy as her first night. There were sailors enjoying their last day of shore leave, surrounded by ale and women, and Emma wondered how many were a part of Killian's crew. Tom, the barkeep, was filling tankards of ale from the barrel taps behind the bar when she walked up.

"I see you're back from your journey, lass," he said. Emma thought there was a kinder light in his eye than the first time they'd met. "Did Cap'n Jones bring back the horse? Thistle's just a good a steed as any."

Emma blinked. "Y-yeah, he's great," she agreed. "And I got some answers."

Tom chuckled. "And yet I bet you just got more questions."

"Something like that."

"I'd love to buy him back from ya. Thistle, of course."

"Oh? You don't have to." Emma glanced back toward the door. "He's just outside."

"I can't do that to ya, lass. Let me give you something."

Emma's eyes narrowed. "Okay," she agreed. "A bed, a bath, and some food and we'll call it even."

"Done."

Tom led her up a case of rickety stairs to a small second floor. There were only three rooms, as far as she could tell. One was considerably bigger, and when Emma walked by the open door she spotted a handful of cots lined up against one wall. Tom led her to the end of the hallway and withdrew a ring of skeleton keys from his belt. "This here is the best room in the house," he said. "Course, that's not sayin' much, but it's cleaner than the rest. Water for the bath should be up in an hour or so. Would ya like your dinner while you wait? It's bread and pork tonight."

"That'll be fine," Emma said before she felt herself smirking against her will. "How much did he pay you?" she asked.

"Who's that?"

"Killian." She shook her head slightly. "Captain Jones," she corrected. "He paid you off to be nice to me."

"You're a smart lass." Tom smiled at her, and although it held less warmth than cynicism, Emma didn't think he meant her any ill-will. "And a tough one, I'd wager, if ya feel safe enough usin' his name. One of the most fearsome pirates on the seas, and you mean somethin' to him. Reckon I'd best do as he asks."

"He's not . . . we're not . . ."

"Aye, lass. I'll send someone up with your dinner."

Dinner was delicious. The pork was juicy, the bread soft and still warm. Even the ale brought up with her meal was spectacular, which made Emma wonder if Killian had offered Tom a few threats of bodily harm along with his gold. She shook her head and then paused, her tankard halfway to her lips.

The only time Killian could have assured Tom's graciousness was the night they'd met. When had he found the time to threaten Tom between their gambling and their night on the _Jolly_? Her mind flashed to the next morning at the rail with Hawkins. Killian had appeared out of nowhere, but she'd assumed that he'd simply been below deck.

But what sense did that make? No decent pirate captain slept in with a stranger on his ship. He must've left before dawn to threaten Tom, and she was none the wiser.

Pirate.

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of her bath. Two girls lugged kettles of steaming water into the room to fill a small copper basin. One offered to help her bathe, a suggestion that Emma quickly shot down with all the subtlety of a rocket. The tub was small, barely big enough for her to sit in with her knees pulled up to her chest, but she sank into the water with a blissful sigh and vowed never to take plumbing for granted again.

The girls had even brought up a small bar of soap, which Emma nearly used entirely on her hair. By the time she stood to dry herself with a thin piece of cloth, the water was an ugly grey color that made Emma shudder. Nope. She'd never look at a shower the same way again.

Just as she was about to dress, she noticed a small pile of clothes. One of the girls must have set them aside. Curiously, she picked up a pair of pants. They were made of a thicker material than she was used to but they looked sturdy. A grey tunic-like shirt and thick blue vest drew her eye. She ran her hands over the material. It felt finer than something a barkeep would own.

She shook her head.

Killian Jones.

"Son of a bitch," she said with a small smile that slowly fell.

 _One of the most fearsome pirates on the seas, and you mean somethin' to him._

Surely she couldn't mean that much. She wasn't worth that much. Her eyes burned as she continued to run her fingers over the vest. No one had ever been so kind to her. No one had, well, no one had really _taken care of her_ before. Foster families had provided enough to keep _their_ meal ticket. The orphanages were simply too crowded for special attention. That was what had made Neal different. He'd given her his attention.

But no one had ever gone out of their way for her until Killian Jones.

 _Sail away with me, Swan._

Emma went to sleep dressed in her new clothes.

* * *

Killian couldn't remember the last time he'd slept so poorly. He could find sleep even in the middle of the nastiest storm, and yet with the _Jolly_ anchored safely in a calm harbor, he tossed and turned as if his bed was made of rock. It certainly felt like it, and he'd been sleeping on the ground the past two weeks.

He couldn't get her out his head. Emma Swan.

The longer he was away from her, the more he realized how truly incredible she was. She was scared and closed off and hostile but he didn't mind. He understood those walls. He could steadily bring them down, if given time. He was sure of it. She'd give him hell, but it'd be worth it.

He wanted to know her, that secret part of herself that she protected so fiercely. He already knew her to be brave and determined. Downright stubborn, actually. She was a fighter, his Swan. A survivor.

They had that in common.

By the time the sun peaked over the horizon, Killian was striding across town to the tavern. He had no idea what he was doing. Not really. He had no idea what he was going to say. He only knew that he was doing exactly what he was supposed to be doing. It was right. It _felt_ right.

Tom was stoking the fire when he entered the tavern. "Tom," he greeted. "How are you this morning?"

"Very well, Cap'n." Tom scurried to his feet despite his broad size. "Is there anything I can get you?"

"Miss Swan's room, if you please. I trust she was well taken care of last night?"

"Yes, sir—I mean, Cap'n." He tentatively pointed toward the stairs. "Last door on your left."

Killian clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. "Thanks, mate."

The stairs were noisy and creaked with each step, but the second floor was silent with the exception of a small choir of drunken snores from the room to his right. He eyed the door suspiciously before hurrying down to Emma's room. He carefully turned the knob, happy to see that the door was locked. Emma had remembered his words of warning.

He knocked quietly.

The door opened before he could lower his hand. "Swan." He couldn't help but smile a little at the sight of her. She looked lovely in her blue vest, her blonde hair pulled back from her face. She stared at him in shock, mouth open, and he nearly gave into the sudden desire to kiss her.

He refrained only because he suspected he'd sooner earn a punch to the face rather than a kiss in return.

And he had to admit, he loved her a bit for that.

"Killian," she breathed in surprise. "What are you doing here?"

"I honestly have no idea."

"What?"

"Come with me."

Emma started to shake her head. "Killian, I—"

"You and I . . . we understand each other," he interrupted. "Look out for yourself and you'll never get hurt, aye?"

Emma straightened her back and put a hand on the door, ready to shut it. "Yeah, and it's worked out so far," she said.

When she tried to shut the door, he caught it with his foot as his hand reached up to cover hers. "Until the day that it doesn't," he said, his voice firm but soft. Emma's eyes were drawn to his, and her breath nearly caught when she saw that his eyes were practically glowing. "You're _here_ , Swan. For who knows how long. And yes, I realize it's completely mad what I'm asking, but I _am_ asking. Sail away with me," he entreated. "You can be a part of something, something bloody magnificent, or you can do what you do best and be alone."

Emma didn't know what to think.

She _couldn't_ think.

She could only stare at him in shocked, confused wonder.

 _He'd come back_.

"You . . . you're . . . here," she said stupidly.

But Killian only nodded. "Aye," he said. "For you."

 _He'd come back. For her._

"Okay," she whispered.

Killian froze for a split second before he began to smile. "Okay?" he repeated.

Emma tentatively returned it. "Let's set sail."

* * *

 **Woohoo! So excited. It's adventure time!**

 **No time for a preview. Got a lecture to go to!**

 **Lots of love,**

 **AC**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Notes: Helloooooooo pretty people! I am so super pumped for this chapter because _this_ is where the fun begins! This is where we get character development with a subtle dash of emotional epiphany. It's glorious. I love it. **

**Strap in, folks. The seas are about to get rough!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. If I did, we'd have a bit more wibbly wobbly, timey wimey . . . stuff . . .**

* * *

Chapter 6

If you asked Emma what in the hell she'd been thinking when she agreed to sail the seas with a pirate in the Enchanted Forest, she would have told you that she didn't have a damn clue. She hadn't been thinking at all. It had been an impulsive decision. The answer had slipped past her lips without a thought, like instinct, like some part of her just _knew_.

And it wasn't romantic. She wasn't swooning over him. That windblown dark hair and those piercing blue eyes and that troublemaker smirk might be pretty to look at and every womanly bone in her body appreciated him from head to toe . . . but that wasn't at all why she'd chosen to sail away with him.

The looks and the smirks weren't at all what she noticed first about Killian Jones. She noticed his unfailing chivalry (apparently it wasn't entirely dead). _I believe in good form, Swan._ She noticed the way she got the thicker blanket and the freshest food. _I'm always a gentleman._ She noticed the way she'd been thrust headfirst into intense swordplay training. _I can't worry about you_ all _the time, darling._ She noticed the fact that he'd given her his quarters (again). _Don't worry about me, love._

He put her first. It was new, she wasn't used to it, half of her actually hated it, but the other part, the quiet part of her, was completely, unequivocally grateful.

Emma sat in the crow's nest this morning. It was her favorite part of the ship. The wind blew stronger in the nest than on deck, and she had discovered that she loved few things more than a fresh, salt breeze early in the morning. It was better than coffee.

It was just before dawn. She'd never been a morning person before coming aboard the _Jolly Roger_ , but there was something about the soothing rock of the ship that sent her into the deepest sleep and then woke her up just as gently. For the past two weeks, she had woken up a half hour before dawn, walked onto the deck, and climbed into the nest to watch the sunrise.

Killian was always behind the wheel when she came on deck, and she found herself watching him just as much as the horizon. He always seemed more like a fairytale character in the quiet of the morning. Standing tall behind the wheel, hair blowing in the breeze, the tail of his coat flapping against his legs. She could even see the reflection of his rings on the spoke of the wheel.

Emma looked away when he suddenly met her eyes from below. She already knew that smirk of his was on display but she refused to look and check. Instead she stared at the horizon. There was nothing more gorgeous than the sunrise on the waves. Oranges and reds and yellows and pinks. Sometimes if she looked hard enough, especially after a storm, she could see glimpses of purple.

"Quite a view, isn't it, love?" Emma let out a startled gasp, and he chuckled. "Forgive me, Swan. It was not my intention to frighten you."

She glared lightly at him as he sat beside her. There was barely enough room for the both of them, and she was suddenly pressed against him from shoulder to ankle. Emma ignored how solid he felt against her as she looked over at him and said, "You didn't scare me. It's just . . . this is my spot."

Killian's eyebrows rose. "Oh, is it, now? I thought this was _my_ ship."

"Shouldn't you be steering your ship?"

"Smee's at the wheel."

Emma glanced behind them. She spotted Smee's red hat before she actually noticed the man wearing it. He was a little, portly man with a too-innocent face that she didn't trust. The feeling, as far as she could tell, was mutual. Smee watched her like a nervous rat guarding its cheese. "You sure he's qualified to drive your baby?" she asked.

Killian scoffed. "I would appreciate it, Swan, if you could avoid comparing my beautiful vessel to one of your _cars_."

"Oh, I'm sorry," she teased.

It amused her on most days how devoted Killian was to his ship. Sometimes she would catch him stroking the wheel fondly or running a loving hand along the rail as he shouted orders. To her it was nothing but a ship. A lovely ship, of course, but a ship. It took her a week to realize that to Killian, the _Jolly Roger_ was _home_.

And along with that knowledge came the realization that he had brought her into his home. Throughout her life she'd been put in foster home after foster home as a meal-ticket and nothing more. Killian was different. The _Jolly Roger_ was different. She hadn't been sent here. She'd been _invited_. She'd been _wanted_.

"So," she said. "What's on the agenda today?"

Killian tensed against her for a brief second before he relaxed. "A bit of piracy, Swan," he said lightly, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. He searched for judgment but found none. Emma's face was unhelpfully, purposefully blank. It looked too much like distrust, and he didn't like that at all.

 _I can't take a chance that I'm wrong about you._

He didn't want to fail her, to prove that he was unworthy of the faith she had placed in him. Killian was well aware how much it had cost her to come with him. He never wanted her to regret setting sail with him, and so he'd spent the past two weeks showing her islands and the nicer port cities, where there was exotic food and drink and fun.

But the men were growing restless, and a restless crew was dangerous.

"I can't afford to dally any longer," he said. "My crew doesn't sail with me to see the world."

Emma continued to stare at him. "What are you going to do?" she eventually asked.

"There's a ship bound for the King," he said. "If we stay our course, we should cross paths just after nightfall."

"What'll happen?"

"We'll board the ship, take it as our own, and indulge in our spoils."

"What about the crew?"

"They'll have a choice. They surrender or they walk the plank." Killian glanced at her. "Most do," he said, "surrender, that is. You could say I've already earned my reputation," he added, and for the first time he wasn't at all proud of that fact. He frowned and looked at the open sea. "I'd like you to stay below until it's done. I don't want you hurt."

To be very clear: Emma Swan was not an idiot. She'd known exactly what she was choosing when she got on board a _pirate_ ship. Pirates were criminals. They cheated, they stole, and they killed. They weren't supposed to be nice.

They also weren't supposed to believe in _good form_.

"How'd you become a pirate?" she asked.

Killian blinked. "What?"

"I can't see how," she continued. "I mean, you're a bit of a scoundrel—"

"Actually, I prefer dashing rapscallion," he cut in with a too-bright smile, and Emma glared at him until he looked down, uncomfortable. "It is a long story, love," he said, his voice soft and layered with sadness. "One we do not have time for today." He rose to his feet, and though he looked down toward her, his eyes stayed fixed on the wood beneath him. "Please, stay below tonight," he repeated. "I do not want you hurt on my account."

Night came quickly. Emma had always found that the few times she had ever been anxious over anything, time had passed agonizingly slow. It wasn't so on the _Jolly Roger_. No, time seemed to speed by as if she'd pressed fast forward. She spent the majority of her time on deck. Even though she knew that Killian had not invited her aboard with expectations of her to earn her keep, Emma felt obliged to help, if for no other reason than if she did not, she'd be bored out of her mind after just a day.

It was maniacal on-the-job training. Working the deck of a ship was fast-paced, grueling work at times, but even after only two weeks she knew the ship from bow to stern. Much to her surprise, the crew had been strangely accommodating to her presence, and the thought of just how painfully Killian must have threatened them all lingered in the back of her mind. The few times she caught one of them leering at her, they just as quickly looked away, and she'd always catch the last vestiges of a hard, warning glare on Killian's face when she looked up at the helm.

But as the days passed, the crew seemed to warm up to her on their own merit. Vincent, a boy only a year or two younger than herself, taught her how to tie all sorts of knots. He was patient with her when she ended up with a giant glob of twisted rope instead of a sturdy knot, and he crowed like a high school cheerleader whenever she succeeded. Bernard—though he insisted that she call him Bee—was a gruff sailor in his forties that looked like a linebacker. He helped her learn to rig the sails and stubbornly insisted on addressing her only as "m'lady."

Then there was the cook, Wallace, who wrote awful poetry yet proudly performed a new verse for her every morning. Ace was the oldest man on the ship at sixty-two and could tell her the name of every star in the sky. Some nights she would sit on deck with him and just listen while he pointed. Occasionally, all the crew would come up at night and tell stories and raunchy jokes and sing the most god-awful songs. She sat with Killian on those nights, and they passed his flask of rum back and forth as they listened and watched, almost like chaperones at a rowdy prom.

As the sun faded in the sky, Emma watched as those very same men steadily became darker, slightly twisted versions of themselves. It reminded her of dogs salivating over a bone. The playful atmosphere on deck morphed into something sharp and biting. Orders were barked instead of shouted. Words exchanged were clipped and brisk. Cold.

She stood on deck as the sun set. There was the vaguest shape on the horizon that she knew had to be the ship Killian planned to seize. The _Jolly Roger_ was flying over the waves. They would reach the ship just minutes after nightfall. She knew that if the naval ship had any schedule similar to the one Killian kept on the _Jolly_ that the crew would be in the middle of switching to the night's watch when he stormed the deck.

The plan was smart, smooth, and practiced.

When the sun fell beneath the waves, Emma went below deck without a word, and as soon as she was alone in Killian's quarters, she wanted out. She paced the length of the room, her eyes roving over the furniture and knickknacks with new perspective. She ran her fingers over the spines of his books. Books about navigation and stars, yes, but she found books filled with stories of knights and princesses and books about philosophy and alchemy.

His maps were beautifully detailed and hand-drawn. Some were yellowed at the ends and curled with age. She wondered who they'd belonged to before Killian claimed them as his own. She opened up the small wardrobe. It was mostly blank space. A handful of clothes and more books, all neatly arranged. Everything was neat, actually.

She had always imagined pirates to be sloppy.

Yet here was Killian Jones, believer in good form and tidiness. Well-read. Articulate. The man said things like _dashing rapscallion_ , for Christ's sake.

Emma believed him to be a pirate. She didn't deny that. He had all the swashbuckling swagger, expert swordsmanship, and cunning that he needed. But she also couldn't deny that there was more to him than just a pirate. He was more.

She didn't understand why he only seemed to show it when he was with her.

When the hatch opened, Emma's head snapped toward the ladder, one hand reaching out toward the dagger lying on the desk. "Relax, love," Killian said. "It's just me."

"Don't you have a ship to pillage and plunder?"

Killian's eyes hardened. "Aye. I came to warn you."

"I know the plan."

"That wasn't what I meant," he said, taking a step closer. "I came to ask that you stay below—"

"I know—"

"—No matter what you hear," he finished. "Even the best laid plans go astray." He took another step toward her, reaching past her to grab the dagger, his arm brushing her waist. "If anyone other than me comes down that hatch, use it," he ordered.

Emma didn't immediately take the weapon. "But, your crew—"

"Pirates know where the wind blows, Swan. Right now, that is to my favor. If that changes my word will no longer be enough to protect you."

"You'd choose me over your own crew?"

"Aye," he said softly but firmly. A quiet, sure fact. Slowly, he reached up to tenderly move one of her curls away from her face. "You're more important."

"Killian . . ."

"I have to go." He looked up at the ceiling, as if he'd heard something she hadn't. "It's nearly time. Remember, stay here. Please."

Emma watched him go. Once the hatch was shut yet again and she was alone, she resumed her pacing with vigor.

He would choose her.

She was more important.

How had _that_ happened?

The shouting started hardly ten minutes later. Then there was the _clang_ of metal meeting metal and a _splash_ as someone was thrown or fell into the water. Emma's pacing abruptly stopped as she strained her ears to listen. It took her a minute to realize she was listening for Killian, as if she could somehow pick out his footsteps or the whistle of his cutlass. The noise went on for five minutes, and then another five.

By the time fifteen minutes passed, the sounds of fighting felt closer. The shouts were clearer, and yet so were the screams. The ceiling above her quaked ever so slightly. She grabbed her dagger and faced the stairs that led onto the deck. The hatch suddenly shuddered, the thin shafts of light through the slats obscured by cloth. There was a horrible _squelch_ as a blade pierced flesh. Blood dripped through the slats onto the stairs.

The body rolled, light came in once again, and the blood looked like black sludge in the night.

Emma tightened her grip on her dagger, hesitating only a second, before she charged up the stairs. She was halfway up when she heard a pained shout, and she knew in her gut that it was Vincent. Barely twenty-years-old Vincent who taught her the proper way to tie a knot and laughed at bad puns.

Without thinking she shoved the hatch open. The wooden slats slid outward to hit a sailor in the shins. She knew by his uniform that he was the enemy, which was strange to think. A uniform was meant to be trusted, meant to be good. Perhaps the man was those things.

But he was trying to hurt Vincent, and suddenly that uniform didn't make a damn bit of difference.

She still wasn't on deck, standing awkwardly at the top of the stairs with only her torso in the open air. She heard Vincent behind her, grunting with effort. "Godsdammit, Emma! What're ya doin' up here?!"

Emma did the only thing she could do. She stabbed the nearest foot that wasn't Vincent's. There was a howl of pain and surprise and then nothing. A body fell next to her, and she stared at his sightless eyes. She couldn't tell their color in the dark and she felt horrible about it, as if knowing would somehow absolve her for the role she'd played in his death.

But she only had a second to think such things, because then a lanky hand wrapped around her arm and pulled her up with surprising strength. "Get behind me, lass," Vincent ordered. "Try not to get ya'self killed, yeah? Captain would have me head."

"He'll get over it," she snapped as she slid her dagger into her belt and snatched up a discarded cutlass instead.

The deck of the _Jolly_ was in chaos, although it was nothing compared the complete disaster on board the navy ship. Something had obviously gone wrong. Emma didn't have time to decide what. A man came at her with his sword raised, although he hesitated when he saw her, unable to decide whether she needed to be saved. Emma decided for him. She attacked his flank, making a cut deep enough to hinder but not to kill. In his surprise she was able to take a step forward and punch him right between the eyes. He went down.

The rest of the fight was a blur to her. Once she made it obvious whose side she was on, the officers did not hesitate to treat her as the enemy. She called on every single lesson Killian had ever given her, suddenly immensely grateful for the arduous, often hours-long sessions. Two weeks had given her little in the way of finesse, but it assured her that she wouldn't die too quickly.

She parried left and right, focused on her footwork. The jostling of the ship combined with the mayhem on deck caused her slip occasionally. One such occasion gave her the horrifying yet entrancing view of a blade missing her neck by mere inches. Emma reacted on instinct. She parried and then thrusted. The tip of her blade sank into his gut, and for a second she was too shocked by the blood bubbling on his lips and the firm hold of his stomach around her sword to yank out the blade.

Then she heard a shout behind her, and the man was eerily forgotten in the face of a new threat. Adrenaline gave her a goldfish's memory. She spun with her sword raised only to find a pair of blazing blue eyes glaring at her. "What the bloody hell are you doing here, Swan!" Killian shouted. "I told you—"

"I know!" she snapped. "Yell at me later!"

Killian fought next to her until the battle ended, taking on two to three officers at any one time, leaving her with little to do other than stand awkwardly behind him and begrudgingly admire his skill with a blade. When the fighting ceased, the ship was eerily quiet until someone let out a victorious _whoop_ and then the whole scene turned into a parade of the spoils of war. Men started fishing through dead men's pockets. Others used the rigging to swing onto the other ship, whooping and hollering like children at Christmas.

Emma stared at the bloodied cutlass in her hand, frozen by the sight of it. She stared until Killian's warm, calloused hand covered her own, gently wrenching it from her grasp. It clattered onto the deck. "Go below," he ordered. His tone brooked absolutely no argument, and she, for once, wasn't inclined to give him one. "I'll be there shortly."

She did, forcing herself not to acknowledge the fact that she had to step over a body to reach the hatch and ignoring the dark stains on the stairs as she descended into Killian's quarters.

She sat on the bed and waited.

She'd done what needed to be done. That's what she told herself as she waited. It was kill or be killed, and she didn't want to die. That didn't make her a murderer, did it? A killer, though . . . yes. She was a killer now.

How . . . odd.

Yes. It was odd. What an odd, silly little thought. A killer. She was a killer. She'd killed someone.

And she hadn't even thought about it. It was instinct, it was _natural_ , and although she hated the fact that someone was dead at her hands . . . she was relieved. Because if he was dead, it meant that she was alive. That wasn't wrong, was it? To be happy to be alive? No, it couldn't be.

Yet it was. It felt wrong. _She_ felt wrong.

She shouldn't have come. She should've stayed on land. She should've begun her search for the pen. She should've trusted the facts. Killian Jones was a pirate. Pirates meant trouble.

She'd had enough of trouble, and she should've known better.

She'd let _feelings_ cloud her judgment. Killian Jones played her strings like no one ever had. He seemed to be able to pluck whatever emotion out of her that he wanted. He made her _want_. To trust him, to give him a chance, to run _with_ him, to sail-a-fucking-way.

And she'd been weak. Her walls had fallen just enough that he'd been able to slither in through the cracks. He said pretty things that no one said and put her first and treated her like he truly gave a damn, and she'd let it cloud her judgement. She wasn't sixteen anymore. She wasn't going to be swept up by a man who simply gave her attention.

So when Killian finally descended the stairs, his boots thudding heavily on each step, she said, "I want to go back."

And he had the gall to nod tiredly, resigned and disappointed, as if he'd expected her to leave him. "Aye," he said, pain laced in his voice. He even winced. "I thought that you would."

Killian walked with a hand holding his ribs beneath his coat. He sat heavily in his desk chair, clinching his eyes shut briefly, before he reached into the top drawer and withdrew a flask. He pulled the cork out with his teeth, tossing it away carelessly on the floor, and then took an egregiously long pull from the flask. He sighed softly, hissing between his teeth. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, his eyes filled with regret. "I never wanted you put in that situation. I would've never asked you to make that choice." His eyes dropped to her hands, clenched in her lap. "To take a life."

He looked away and took another long pull from his flask. Emma's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, so much for this magnificent adventure," she said. "It's all just a big load of trouble."

Killian surprised her. He chuckled once, wincing yet again. "Trouble's just the bits in between, darling," he said.

Emma took a step toward him, hating the concern that bubbled uncomfortably in her chest. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Fine, love," he said, despite the slur in his voice. He huffed, blinked heavily as slipped a little further into his chair. "I'm jus—" His eyes closed.

"Killian!"

Emma rushed forward, falling to her knees just in time to catch him around the waist before he fell. "Killian?" She huffed as she supported his weight. There was something wet and warm on her hand beneath his coat, and now that she was so close to him, she was overwhelmed by the smell of sweat and rust. "Killian?"

She pushed him back into the chair, and when she moved her hands to grasp his shoulders in order to shake him awake, she noticed her right hand was coated in blood from wrist to fingertips. "Oh, god," she breathed. "Killian?" She shook him sharply. "Killian, wake up! You stupid _pirate_ , wake up!"

His eyes fluttered open, and he immediately groaned. "Swan," he mumbled sleepily.

Emma shook him again. "What do you think you're doing?!"

"Bleeding," he said, infusing a truly impressive amount of sarcasm into just one word. "Profusely," he added.

His eyes began to close again, and Emma panicked. She grabbed the flask in his limp hand and splashed it sloppily onto his side. Killian's body jerked violently. "Bloody fucking hell!" he cursed, clenching his jaw tightly to keep himself from saying more. "Warn a man, Swan," he chastised.

"You were falling asleep," she snapped. "I didn't think that was a good thing."

Killian considered that. "You're probably right."

"Probably," she scoffed before looking him over from head to toe. "Okay, let's get this off."

She pushed his coat off of his shoulders with little ceremony, but when she went to do the same to his shirt and vest, he suddenly wrapped his hand around her waist and pulled her closer. "If you wanted to undress me, love, you only had to ask," he flirted.

Emma rolled her eyes. "I'm not the type of woman to take advantage."

"And just what kind of woman are you, Swan?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Perhaps I would."

She met his eyes sharply and immediately looked away. His gaze was entirely too honest. She swallowed and forced her eyes to stare at his shoulders. "C'mon," she said. "Let's get this over with."

She hated the way he moaned when the blood saturated fabric clung stubbornly to his wound before finally giving way. Emma threw the ruined shirt away with a force that surprised her. She found the bloody fabric strangely offensive.

The sight of Killian's wound made her gasp. "Oh, Killian."

"That bad? It feels that bad."

"Bad?" she repeated angrily. "How the hell have you been walking around for hours with _this_?"

Emma stared at clean slice in Killian's ribs. The gash was deep, gapping wide, and steadily oozing blood in a slow trickle down his side. The smell of rust was nearly overwhelming and made her stomach churn. She gently ran her fingers just under the wound. It stretched nearly six inches, curling toward his back.

"It's going to need stitches," she said. "A lot of stitches."

Killian sighed, leaning his head back to droop over the back of the chair. "I trust you, love."

Emma's eyes widened. "What? You can't be serious. I can't—let me just go get someone better."

She started to get to her feet, but Killian's hand suddenly wrapped around her wrist like a vice. "Don't," he said, his eyes momentarily sharp and clear. "The crew can't see me like this."

Emma smirked a little. "What? You don't have to play the tough guy—"

Killian didn't release her. "Yes, I do," he said. "Pirates always know where the wind blows, Swan," he repeated heavily. "They're already unhappy with me. We lost men. If they smell blood in the water, they'll circle like sharks." His grip on her wrist eased, although he did pull her closer as the clarity in his eyes began to fade. "And I'm hardly in the position to protect you."

Emma stared at him for a long moment. He stared tiredly but resolutely back. She was the first to look away, her eyes drawn to his wound. "Okay," she said, exhaling loudly. "Let's do this."

Killian told her where he kept a needle and thread, and she almost teased him about being able to sew until she acknowledged the fact that he only had five shirts. This was the Enchanted Forest. It wasn't as though he could go to the mall and buy a new one.

Emma managed to stay relatively calm until she had the needle threaded and hovering over the gash. "I've never done this," she told him.

"I believe in you, Swan," he said, even as he took a large gulp of rum. "Best just go for it."

Emma nodded, took a deep breath, and then started to stitch.

The entire process was awful. She hated the way she had to push and pull the needle through his skin. She hated the way a strangled groan or curse would escape Killian when she was too rough due to her nerves. She apologized profusely each time, and she hated the way he assured her that it was alright, that she was doing fine.

She was halfway through on stitch number eight when Killian began to talk. He was already on his second flask of rum, for which Emma was grateful. He flinched less, which made her hand steadier. "I was in the Royal Navy," he said suddenly, his words not slurred but soft and slow. "Lieutenant Killian Jones."

Emma's hand paused, the needle hovering over his skin. "How respectable of you, Mr. Jones," she said.

"Aye. You wouldn't believe the man I was then. Young and a bloody idiot."

"I don't think that's changed."

Killian chuckled. "Cheeky woman." His laughter faded and his smile dropped, falling into a sad, contemplative frown. "I was very by-the-rules, then. Didn't even drink rum."

"Now, _that_ I find hard to believe."

She said nothing when he put his hand on her shoulder and began to play with her hair, even if she was suddenly hyperaware of every strand that slipped through his fingers. "I sailed under a great Captain," he said. "A better man than I'll ever be."

"Who?"

"My brother, Liam." Killian drank from his flask as soon as the last syllable left his lips. He took one drink, letting the flask hover at his lips before taking a decidedly larger sip. "He was eight years my senior, my brother. Practically raised me. Even when I had nothing, I had Liam."

Emma focused on another stitch. "What happened?"

"He died in my arms."

"And you became a pirate."

Killian took another drink. "The King sent us to Neverland," he said, not noticing the way Emma paused abruptly in her stitching to stare at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. He stared blankly at something over her shoulder while his fingers still played with her hair. "He said there was a plant to cure all ills. We were to retrieve it. Yet when we reached the island we were approached by a boy who warned us that the Dreamshade was in fact an incurable poison. Liam didn't believe him."

"But you did."

"Aye. I didn't understand why the boy would lie about such a thing, but Liam's trust in our king was unfailing. He poisoned himself to prove my hesitations were ill-founded." Killian's eyes turned glassy. Emma didn't know if it was due to tears or alcohol. "He just collapsed right there, Swan. Black veins crawling along his skin. When the boy appeared and told me of a cure, I didn't hesitate. He warned me that there would be a price, but I didn't care."

Emma made another stitch, if only for an excuse to look away from him. "Did it work?" she asked eventually.

"Aye. It worked. Until it didn't." He went to take another drink from his flask only to find it empty. He threw it across the room. Emma hissed as his wound began to bleed again. Luckily, her stitches were intact. She waited until she was sure he wasn't going to move again before starting another stitch. Three stitches later, his voice broke the terrible silence of the cabin. "The waters of Neverland lost their potency as soon as we returned to our realm," he said. "One second he was fine. The next he was dead. And it was my fault."

Emma felt tears in her eyes when his voice cracked at the end. She stubbornly blinked them away and focused on her work. "It wasn't your fault, Killian," she said.

Killian didn't answer, and Emma didn't push.

As she worked on her final stitches, she suddenly said, "I'm an orphan." Killian's fingers stilled in her hair. She kept her gaze fixed on his side as she continued, detached, "My parents abandoned me on the side of a road the day I was born. I was in a good home until I was three when my foster family had a kid of their own and so they sent me back. I bounced from home to home until I ran away when I was sixteen. I never lasted anywhere for more than a year."

Killian's fingers slipped from her hair, and she stiffened, ready for the sting of rejection, for him to realize what everyone else inevitably did, that she was unwanted and unloveable. She waited, but nothing happened. Instead, she felt his fingertips trace her jaw. He gently tipped her chin up and she made sure her walls were locked down tight. She was ready.

"They're all idiots," he said simply, "and they didn't deserve you."

He wasn't fazed when his Swan stared at him in frozen disbelief before her head snapped back to his wound. He didn't say a word about the glistening sheen in her eyes or the way she was a bit too rough with her last two stitches in her haste to get away from him. When she cleaned the tight row of stitches once again with yet another flask of rum she found in the chest at the foot of his bed, he didn't make a sound.

Then she was standing, out of his reach, arms folded, looking at him with forced detachment. A minute of awkward silence passed before she frowned. "I should get you in bed," she muttered, reaching reluctantly toward him to help.

He accepted her hands on his skin and her weight against his with a smirk. "Under better circumstances, Swan, I'd be flattered," he began but she scoffed.

"Don't start, pirate."

"Is that fondness, I hear?"

"More like extreme irritation."

"I'm growing on you, I can feel it."

Emma rolled her eyes as she helped him lay in the bed. She removed his boots one by one and set them carefully on the floor. Then she took a deep breath, removed her own boots and vest, and then turned to Killian. "Scoot," she ordered.

"Anxious to be in my bed, Swan?"

Even weak from blood loss and stupidly drunk, Killian managed a smoldering smirk that made Emma scowl to hide her blush. "You're an idiot," she said as she awkwardly laid next to him, mindful of the single inch of space between them. "How did you even get cut like that? Being the master swordsman you are."

She didn't expect the silence that followed her question. Just as she was about to lift her head to see if he'd fallen asleep, he said, "I saw you on deck. I was mad as hell, of course, because you didn't bloody listen, but you were _brilliant_." He paused. "Then one of those bastards nearly took your head off . . . and I think my heart stopped for a moment. I couldn't move."

Emma heard him turn his head on the pillow. She felt his eyes on her, but she couldn't force her eyes to meet his. It was too intimate. They were in bed, he wasn't wearing a shirt, and she didn't know what would happen if she looked up.

So she stared at his neck, pinning her gaze there so it didn't give into the temptation to dip lower, and said sharply, "That was stupid. You're fucking idiot and a pain in my ass."

"I actually quite fancy you from time to time," he said brightly. "When you're not yelling at me."

"Go to sleep, Killian."

It was ironic that Emma actually fell asleep first, and Killian capitalized on the opportunity to just look at her. She was beautiful, his Swan. Her blonde hair tickled his nose and brushed against his arm. He was struck by how young she looked with her walls completely down. She couldn't be too far into her twenties. Bloody hell.

The story of her past made him ache. Literally, physically ache. He felt too many conflicting emotions—anger at the families who had turned her away, who had made her feel unloved and unworthy—sadness at the thought of how lonely a life she must have led—happiness at the thought that all of it had brought her to him—yet most of all, he felt a surge of hope, determination, and what he felt sure was the beginnings of love.

And he knew that she felt something, too. She could deny it, ignore it all she wanted, but he knew. They both _knew_. It was strange, this feeling they shared. Strange and terrifying and powerful. It was unlike anything he'd ever felt, and he had to believe that one day she would be open to it, to _him_. He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't abandon her.

Emma just had to give him a chance to prove it.

"When I win your heart, Emma, and I _will_ win it," his voice was a gentle promise as he tentatively raised his hand and brushed her hair back from her face, "it won't be because of any trickery. It will be because you want me."

Sleep had never come easier to Killian Jones than on that night.

* * *

 ***dies of feels***

 ***resuscitated by the Doctor***

 **Geronimo! Here we go!**

 **So much happened this chapter. We've got Killian being all pirate-y, Emma fighting her attraction, and then Killian coming in once again to steal the show with his sweetness. Seriously, he's so fucking adorable when he wants to be.**

 **Ugh. I love them.**

 ***fangirl moment over* *drops mic***

 ***picks up mic***

 **But wait, there's more! We need a line from the next chapter! And the honor goes to . . . Vincent (we will all love him, I promise) . . . - "I know I may be a pirate, but I like to think I know when a friend is upset."**

 **See you Friday!**

 **Lots of love,**

 **AC**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Notes: Hello, hello, hello! How are we all today? Good? Good. I'm swell.**

 **Finals are over, if you're wondering what's contributing to my delirium.**

 **Summer is _officially_ here, and you know what that means? Writing. Yay! Between you and me, I haven't had a chance to work on this story in _months,_ but fear not, I've got 30-odd chapters written. Updates will be steady and predictable, I promise. :)**

 **Anyhoo, let's catch back up with our favorite pirates, shall we?**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. In any way. At all. Like, not even a little bit.**

* * *

Chapter 7

Emma was the first to wake up, and as you might have expected, it only took her two seconds to panic. She had gone to sleep with the firm thought of remaining on her back, preserving that precious inch of space between her and Killian, but somehow she'd managed to wrap herself around him like a monkey to a tree. Her head steadily rose and fell on his chest, and her legs were tangled in his, but perhaps the most telling of all was the way her hand gently rested over his stitched wound. She gently traced the wound with her fingers, telling herself that she was feeling for a torn stitch and nothing more.

 _I think my heart stopped for a moment._

Emma traced the wound again. He'd been distracted because of her. He'd been worried. He'd been . . . scared. For her. And she could almost feel it in the way he held her to him, one hand holding hers over his wound and the other on the curve of her waist.

 _I actually quite fancy you from time to time, when you're not yelling at me._

Secretly, in the quietest places in her heart, Emma admitted that she quite fancied him, too. The realization brought a healthy dose of fear that would typically be enough for her to get up and go. To run. And she _wanted_ to run.

But she also wanted to stay, and wasn't that just the damnedest thing?

Killian shifted then, jolting her out of her thoughts. She froze, barely daring to breathe, as he turned just slightly. Emma felt his stitches pull slightly under her fingers, and he huffed sleepily into her hair before nuzzling even closer, purring like a damn cat. Her lips twitched.

It was . . . well, it was kind of cute.

Faint light began to pour through the windows. She should be getting up. On any other day she would have already been up in the crow's nest, and the thought caused her to nearly ache with the need to climb up to her spot to put some distance between herself and Killian. Of course, that would require moving.

And she just _knew_ that Killian was a light sleeper.

He would wake up as soon as she moved, and then she'd have to face him. She didn't want to do that. She didn't know how to do _this_. She hadn't woken up with a man since Neal. It had been _years_. What was the procedure, here?

God, they hadn't even had sex, and she was stressing over the morning after.

Emma tentatively lifted her head. He looked young in sleep, far younger than she knew him to be. His hair hung in his eyes like a rebellious teenager, and the scar on his cheek looked like a badge of honor a child would proudly wear after jumping from a tree to see if he could fly.

All sense of innocence faded as her gaze inevitably drifted down.

He was a gorgeous man, not that she ever had any intention of telling him that, and although she let her eyes travel over his broad shoulders and toned stomach with feminine appreciation, her gaze didn't linger. Her eyes settled here and there on lines of puckered skin, some pink and fresh, others pale and old. Scars. She imagined most to be from swords much like his latest addition.

There were two on his abdomen. The one tucked underneath his ribcage was mottled and angry but old. It reminded her of a burn. The other was closer to his hip on the opposite side. It was thin and pink, maybe a two inches long, and Emma thought it might disappear with time. Her eyes fell on his newest addition. That scar wouldn't ever fade. It would always be there, and in a strange way, so would she, since he'd gotten it because of her.

The room was brighter now, the light coming through the window pale yellow instead of grey. She should really get up. More importantly, _he_ should be up. He was always up before her, always on deck when she climbed up to her retreat, her little castle on a cloud, and what would it mean for one of the crew to venture onto deck and not find his captain?

 _If they smell blood in the water, they'll circle like sharks._

"Killian," she whispered.

She shifted until she'd balanced her weight on her elbow. Gently, she placed her hand on his shoulder and shook him. His eyes were open barely a second later, their blue color foggy with sleep. He stared at her and blinked slowly, "You're still here." He sounded surprised, pleasantly so, and a grin began to form. "I would've thought you'd be high up in your little nest by now."

Emma flushed. "It's late," she said, avoiding his observation. Killian didn't smile, but his eyes glowed with humor as he continued to stare at her. "You're usually on deck by now, and I didn't know what would happen if one of the crew came up and didn't see you."

Killian did smile then, softly. His hand on her waist gently stroked her spine. She'd forgotten about that hand entirely, and the tender caress spoke of an intimacy that scared her, particularly since there was an innate feeling of rightness. As if it was all natural.

"Were you worried about me, Swan?" he teased.

She scowled and abruptly sat up. His hand fell away. Her back immediately felt cool, and her entire body was suddenly vividly aware of the lack of his warmth. She gritted her teeth. "You're an idiot," she said, repeating herself from the night before.

"And a fucking pain in your pretty, little arse," Killian added, "or something to that effect, I believe."

Emma stood from the bed and spun around to glare at him. The arrogant man hadn't moved once since he'd opened his eyes. He was still stretched on the bed, head on the pillow, chest bare, and a stupid cocky smirk on his face. "I could get used to this, you know," he continued. "I quite like waking up to this."

 _You_ went unsaid, but by no means did she not hear it.

And that took the wind out of her sails like nothing else.

From his place on the bed, Killian watched her still. Her eyes widened in a familiar, panicked look and her fists clenched as if she was ready to physically fight his words. His smirk softened into something gentle, and he slowly pulled himself upright, his hand reaching for his tender wound. He hissed as he stood, wincing as the wound stretched and the stitches pulled.

"Bloody hell," he muttered.

He looked up to find Emma still staring at him, though her gaze was lowered, her eyes square on his chest. He looked down, as if there could be a surprise there he should know about, but saw nothing but his dark chest hair. Emma didn't notice his playful gesture, and when he looked up to still see her staring, he had to tease, "Oi, this isn't a free show, Swan. But," he took a step toward her, closing the distance between them, "if the lady insists . . ."

"She doesn't," Emma snapped. Her eyes flicked up to glare into his but his grin didn't falter for a second. "Now put on a damn shirt."

"Yes, love."

"And get on deck. Man the helm, or whatever."

"Of course, darling."

"Would you shut up?"

"Whatever you say, beautiful."

Emma marched over to his wardrobe, grabbed a fresh shirt, and threw it at him. Killian caught it with one hand. "Thank you, love," he said, only to have her fume in irritation and nearly growl at him. She stalked toward him, hand raised—whether to slap him or just shove him, he wasn't sure—but he gently caught her wrist, his thumb stroking her pulse point. "Thank you," he repeated, "for waking me. You were wise to do so."

When she pulled away from his hold, perhaps a touch too sharply, he let her go. But he kept staring at her with smitten, soft eyes, and so she huffed. "You still irritate me," she said bluntly.

He smiled. "Aye, love. I know."

And he loved it.

* * *

Emma's irritation faded as soon as she stepped on deck. The sun was bright, the sky was blue, the sea was calm. It was picturesque in a way she hadn't noticed before. Too perfect. Like a postcard.

And suddenly she remembered. She _remembered_.

She remembered the blood and the cries and the fighting and how in the hell had she managed to _forget_?

Emma wasn't sure what she had expected when she stepped on deck, but she certainly hadn't expected this. She hadn't expected it to look like any other day. There were no bodies. She didn't see even a drop of blood. Around her was nothing but the sea. No sinking, burning ship. No lifeboats. No . . . nothing.

It was like nothing had happened. It was like the previous night had been nothing but a dream. The thought made Emma—who had yet to experience a second of sea sickness—want to retch.

People had died. _She_ had killed someone. And there was no evidence, not even a grave. Her eyes drifted to the water. For the first time she thought the sea looked like a quiet monster, patiently waiting to devour her.

She didn't go to her spot. She went to the helm.

Killian cocked an eyebrow as she strode up to him, but the hint of a smile on his lips faded as he realized she was unhappy. No, she was angry. Not entirely unusual, certainly, but his eyes narrowed when he caught the slight tremble in her chin and the sheen in her eyes. "What happened?" she asked.

She kept her voice low, for which he was grateful. He cast an eye toward the deck. Only half the crew had recovered enough from last night's drunken, celebratory revels to work. A few curious eyes turned his way. Emma rarely ventured to the wheel. He glared at them until they focused on their tasks. "Killian." Emma's voice was hard yet brittle. "What happened last night, after?"

"You won't like that answer, love."

"I need to know."

He sighed. "After we took what we desired, we burned the ship."

Emma's jaw tightened. "And the crew?"

"The few that remained I allowed to take a skiff with three days of supplies."

"What? We're in the middle of nowhere. They'll die."

"On the contrary, if there's even one decent sailor among them, they'll know that there is a small port due west. It can be reached, even in the small vessel I granted them."

Emma swallowed but met his gaze evenly. "And the bodies?"

"All received their due, Swan. I'm a pirate, not a beast."

"Yeah? What do you think your brother would think about this?"

Killian froze. He was shocked, at first. He had no memory of mentioning Liam until that very second. Hazy visions of rum and Emma's steady hands on his side filtered through his mind as his shock steadily morphed into anger. How _dare_ she mention Liam.

"Let me be clear, Swan," his voice was low and clipped, dangerously calm, "while I hold the utmost affection for you, those feelings do not give you the right to use my brother against me in an attempt to soften your own guilt over _your_ actions. My brother is _not_ blackmail. He's my _family_. Perhaps if you had one, you'd understand."

The regret didn't come immediately. He felt, for a sweet moment, blinding satisfaction when Emma's eyes widened in shocked hurt. Her green eyes glistened, and he relished it, the knowledge that he'd hurt her as she had hurt him, for one beautiful, sweet second. Then he felt like a gutted fish as horror, shame, and regret battled for dominance when he heard her breath hitch.

And he knew, he _knew_ that he had just put them on a path where there was absolutely no return, a path where she would leave him because he'd hurt her like the rest of the world, like she'd quietly expected him to all this time. He saw it in her eyes, the shock, but he then he saw the disappointment.

And he cursed vehemently in his mind.

Because it hit him then, with startling clarity, that she had harbored a small bit of hope that he would prove different from the rest.

"Emma—"

Her face twisted into a harsh grimace as she tried to mask her pain with anger. "Don't," she growled.

She went up to her nest and stayed there the rest of the day.

* * *

Emma watched the sunset blankly. She didn't see the reds and the oranges and the pinks playing along the top of the water. She didn't see the storm clouds on the horizon. She simply stared as her mind drifted.

Well, _drift_ was hardly the word. _Looped_ , was far more appropriate.

 _Perhaps if you had one, you'd understand._

 _Perhaps if you had one, you'd understand._

 _Perhaps if you had one, you'd understand._

 _Perhaps . . ._

Yes. Perhaps she would understand, then.

 _Let me be clear, Swan . . . while I hold the utmost affection for you_ . . . _in an attempt to soften your own guilt over_ your _actions . . ._

She had expected nightmares. She had expected to fall asleep only to see her sword in that man's stomach. She didn't even know his name. He was just a nameless man, a nameless man that perhaps had a family, and she'd killed him.

 _Perhaps if you had one, you'd understand._

But she hadn't experienced a single nightmare. She hadn't even dreamed. She had only fallen into the deepest sleep she could ever remember to a feeling of warmth and safety. Emma scowled. She refused to believe it had anything to do with Killian Jones.

Because she was not _that_ kind of girl.

Night fell completely, but Emma did not move. The air turned cold, the breeze in the nest changing from refreshing to harsh. Emma's hair whipped about her face, but she did not bother to take the tie from her wrist to secure it. She kept her arms wrapped around her knees.

She should go below. The storm clouds were closer now. Lightening flashed in the clouds and thunder shook the ship. The air grew heavy and thick with moisture, and she watched the waves steadily grow larger, hitting the _Jolly_ with increasing violence.

Emma still didn't move. She held her knees tighter to her chest and stared sightlessly at the darkening clouds as she continued to try to understand the world she'd stumbled blindly into. The day had passed like any other. By midday the crew had managed to climb onto deck. The few that she might have considered friends, or potential friends at least, called up to her in greeting that she did not return.

Bee tried to talk to her as he manned the rigging but she ignored him. Old Ace didn't speak to her but he did try to catch her eye, which she pointedly avoided. It was only Vincent who actually climbed into the nest with her and tried to talk.

He looked so incredibly young as he sat next to her, his dirty blonde hair falling out of its ponytail and his grey eyes murky with lack of sleep. He looked like a teenager who had just climbed out of bed. "You're awfully quiet," he said. "Something the matter, lass?"

"No."

"I may be a simple pirate, but I like to think I know when a friend is upset."

"Friend?"

"Aye. What else would you be?" Vincent smiled. "You saved me life, you know." He held up his arm, which she noticed for the first time was in a hastily-fashioned sling. "Got me arm sliced right and proper. Bloody officer might've killed me if you hadn't come up when you did."

Emma looked away. "I'm glad you're okay."

"Bee stitched me up," he said. "Not the nicest way to spend an evening, I'll tell you."

"No," she agreed knowingly. "Definitely not."

They'd fallen into a thick silence then. Emma had hoped that Vincent would get the message and leave, but the blond simply sat, seemingly content to survey the sky until he said, "The first time I killed anyone, I was thirteen. I've been on the water all me life, you see, and I started out as a cabin boy. You've got your good ships and your bad ships, and I got one of the bad ones."

"Not all captains are like Captain Jones," Vincent said. "We pirates are a dishonorable lot by nature, I suppose, but the Captain's a fair man and he knows the value of having lines he's not willing to cross."

Emma frowned but didn't reply, unsure where the story was going, and Vincent smiled half-heartedly. "The ship I was on before this one was a nasty one. The crew were mindless brutes, the Captain even worse. Blackbeard."

"Blackbeard?"

"Ah, I see you've heard of him. He wasn't the problem, actually. Made me life hell, but I managed. It was the first mate who kept looking at me funny, and of course, you hear stories about, well . . . the extent of a cabin boy's _duties_."

Emma tensed as her head snapped back toward him, her mind suddenly filled with dark memories of a foster home when she was eleven and the man who always peeked into her room at odd hours of the night and just stared. She'd run away after she caught him staring at her in the bath.

"What happened?" she asked quietly.

Vincent kept his eyes on the sea. "He grabbed me one night, tried to, well, use me. It was luck, really, that the cook hadn't come for his dinner plate yet. The knife was just within my reach." He looked at her then. "Stabbed him right here," he said, pointing at his jugular. "It was a bloody mess."

"Didn't even think about it, really," he said, almost absently, as if he hadn't thought about it this deeply in years. Perhaps he hadn't. "I just reacted." Then Vincent looked at her with a gentle, understanding smile. "And that doesn't make it right, but it certainly doesn't make me wrong."

"You're the brightest spot of light on this ship, Emma," he said. "And I think we crew nearly adore you as much as the Captain." Emma scoffed and looked away, uncomfortable with his observation. The idea that anyone _adored_ her was just . . . ridiculous. Vincent chuckled and continued, "You really earned our respect last night, comin' up and fighting like you did. You're one of us, now."

"I'm no pirate."

"Perhaps not," he'd allowed with a grin that said he didn't believe her. "But, alas, I fear our Captain isn't at all happy with our quality time," he said, glancing at the helm where Killian was glaring at him. "Best be getting back to work, then."

Vincent had left her with a lot to think about. Was he right? He'd killed a man to defend himself, exactly as she had. _And that doesn't make it right, but it certainly doesn't make me wrong._ Emma didn't like that. She wanted clear answers. She wanted black and white, good and evil. It made it simpler.

But really, what in her life had ever been so simple? No, she knew better than most that the world, that people's actions, could not be so evenly split between right and wrong. Her rationale didn't make her feel better, however. It only made her head hurt.

Because what was she going to do? If she chose to leave the next time the _Jolly_ docked in port, how would she live? She'd already considered those choices before coming aboard. Not a single one was favorable. She supposed she could get a horse and however much supplies she could carry and go searching for clues about the pen, but what did she know of the Enchanted Forest?

And, of course, if she left, she would be alone.

It was different, here. She wasn't in Florida. She couldn't get in her Bug and drive to a new city. It wasn't as simple as finding an apartment, signing a lease, and then searching for the best coffee shop. This was the Enchanted Forest. There were new rules, different rules, and suddenly being alone meant something very different. Emma sighed as the _Jolly_ shook with yet another clap of thunder.

What would become of her if she stayed?

* * *

Killian had attempted to give her space.

He'd watched her with solemn, self-flagellating eyes as she climbed up into her nest. He hadn't stopped her. He hadn't attempted to talk to her. He'd known that she wouldn't speak to him.

But no, she'd talked to Vincent. _Vincent_ was worthy of her attention.

He'd noticed the boy's affection for Emma. He'd noticed their budding friendship. He'd watched over the past weeks as they spent increasing amounts of time together under the pretense of knot-tying and the occasional session of swordplay. Killian hadn't thought anything of it. Not really.

But he did now.

Now, he wondered.

Just what was the extent of their relationship, anyway?

Other members of the crew tried to engage her. He'd nearly snapped at Bee for attempting to get her attention. It was "Fair weather we're having, m'lady" and then "Care to help with the rigging, m'lady" and again with the "It's awful lonely without you on deck, m'lady" . . . honestly, there was politeness and then there was simple arse-kissing.

And Killian didn't like the thought of anyone kissing Emma's arse. Figurative sense or not.

As the day waned and Emma showed no signs of leaving her nest, Killian grew anxious. She was coming down, wasn't she? She had to at some point. It was only logical. She had to sleep.

Yet by the time he locked the wheel as night fell, Emma still showed no signs of moving. He thought about going to her. He needed to speak with her, to tell her how sorry he was, that he was just a stupid, stupid pirate. He knew that. He owed her that.

But he didn't want to hear her say that she wanted to leave.

So he went below to his quarters, knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep until she was with him, and yet without any plans to actually do something about it. He sat at his desk instead, a candle burning for light as he poured over his maps to chart a new course. He had little desire to seize another ship anytime soon. Perhaps a smuggling venture. Port Royal was not terribly far . . .

It wasn't until the ship rocked sharply that Killian realized how much time had passed. The candle on his desk rolled to the edge, the flame scorching the wood and the wax leaving a hot mess in its wake. He growled in annoyance as he snuffed out the flame with his thumb, glaring at the rapidly drying wax marring his desk. The ship shook again and Killian froze.

Emma was still on deck.

The ship rocked, listing dangerously to the side, sending his books sliding out of their shelves.

Killian was already climbing the stairs. The first thing he noticed was the rain. It was pouring in torrents, nearly blinding him, and he couldn't for the life of him understand how in the bloody hell he'd failed to notice the change in weather. He immediately looked up at the crow's nest, but Emma was not there.

"Swan!"

"Here!"

His head snapped to the helm and there she was, his Swan, looking like a sea goddess behind the wheel as lightening cracked. He called the crew on deck, his voice barely carrying over the roar of the waves. The ship rolled as he climbed toward the helm, sending him slamming into the rail. He felt the stitches in his side tear.

Emma clutched the spokes of the wheel in a death grip, her entire body straining with the effort to keep the ship steady. When the ship rocked yet again, her feet slipped, yet instead of falling to the deck, she fell into a chest as Killian caught her. "Bloody hell, Swan," he shouted to be heard over the storm. "Where'd this come from?"

She stared at him incredulously. "How am I supposed to know?! It's like the sky just opened up!"

"It's bloody damnation." Killian grabbed the wheel, groaning with the strain. "Get below! I don't want you swept off the deck!"

"Like hell!" she snapped and he loved and hated the fire in her eyes as she glared at him. "You need all hands on deck, _Captain_."

And then she turned and ran down toward Bee to help with the rigging. Killian watched her go with a growl of frustration. Infuriating woman!

He tried to keep an eye on her. He truly, honestly did. Yet the storm was an apocalyptic conflagration of wind, rain, and hail. The night was horribly black, only illuminated whenever lightning struck, and so he only glimpsed his crew in brief silvery flashes that made little sense. Thunder boomed in the sky so often that the air was nearly alive and vibrating. It set Killian's teeth on edge as he tried to steer the ship out of the storm.

Yet no matter where he turned the ship, the storm seemed to follow.

It was madness.

The waves continued to grow bigger, crashing over the rails and sweeping the crew off their feet, sending a handful of unfortunate souls too slow to grab on to something sliding across the deck. Emma clung to the rigging next to Bee, who had only one hand on the rigging and the other firmly clasped around her arm. His grip would bruise, but Emma hardly cared as another wave threatened to sweep her across the deck. She floated upward as the water crashed into her, feeling weightless for a horrifying moment, before slamming back onto the deck. Her hands slipped from the rigging, burned and ripped from the rope, but she kept her feet under her.

She couldn't see. Water fell into her eyes too quickly for her to blink away. Her eyes were narrowed into such thin slits that she might as well have her eyes completely closed. Wind stung her face. Her hair slapped against her shoulders, and with each wave she grew more exhausted.

Another rough wave hit the ship and a horrible _crack_ followed. One of the main lines snapped, partially collapsing a sail, and the Jolly pitched viciously. Emma could just hear a voice on the wind that sounded like Killian, but she was only focused on the rigging and Bee, who charged forward to secure the line.

She followed right after him.

She heard the wave before she saw it. It was a loud roar in her ears that sounded like a monster opening its jaws wide. The air stilled briefly, like the world paused to hold its breath, and then the ocean was growling in her ears.

The water slammed into her with the force of a truck. She had no hope of staying on her feet. She tried to turn, to grab hold of anything, even a leg of one of the crew, but there was no one and nothing.

Then she was falling.

* * *

 **Yeah, Emma just can't seem to catch a break.**

 **It's been lovely watching this story's readership grow, so I hope none of you are too upset with me for the cliffhanger! Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. You're all awesome. Don't let anyone tell you different.**

 **Okay . . . line from the next chapter . . . the award goes to . . . Killian! - "Don't do this to me, love."**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Notes: Okay, guys! I am officially done with my first year of graduate school and technically only 4 classes away from my degree. It's amazing what can happen in a year, but between you and me, I am so fucking ready for a break.**

 **A break full of fanfiction, of course. Because reasons.**

 **Thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited this story. If you didn't get the chapter alert for Chapter 7 last week, I am terribly sorry. FF was being an asshole. But that sorta means this is like a double update, right?**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. Nope. Not a cent . . . pity.**

* * *

Chapter 8

No one initially noticed Emma's absence.

The harsh combination of the wind, the rain, and the waves kept every sailor aboard focused entirely on themselves and keeping the _Jolly_ afloat. It was only when the next flash of lightning illuminated the deck that Killian noticed his Swan was missing. Horror kept him frozen for only a second before he was shouting, "Man overboard!"

Vincent was the second one to notice. He heard Killian shouting above him, something about someone taking the wheel, and he just knew what his Captain planned to do. It was a damn right stupid plan.

So he did it first.

He tied himself to a line and jumped. The water was freezing, the currents rough. He tumbled under the waves, twisting awkwardly as he tried to gain control. _Come on, come on, come on_ . . .

Once he was finally upright in the water, Vincent dove deeper, his eyes searching vainly in the dark for a glimpse of pale skin and blonde hair. He was likely too late. He knew that. In this storm, with these waves? There was no telling where she'd been swept off to.

Vincent dove deeper still.

Lightning flashed. The water switched from black to murky blue. The light lasted for hardly a second, barely a blink, but it was enough. He saw a halo of blonde hair to his right and he blindly swam in that direction, praying to Calypso that she would show mercy. _Please let me save her._

His hand brushed her leg, and he grappled blindly before finally hooking his arm around her waist. It was only as he started for the surface that he felt the burn in his lungs. His strokes, once strong and sure, became sharper with panic. His grip on Emma, however, only tightened.

He breached the surface with a gasp. Seawater flowed into his open mouth and he choked and sputtered as he sank beneath the waves once again. Then the line wrapped around his waist tugged painfully, and his head was once again above water, Emma's limp form propped on his shoulder. Even in the rain and the wind, he was very aware that there was no breath against his skin.

Vincent clutched Emma to him as he was hauled back on board. Once he cleared the rail, he was assaulted by hands. At least three people grabbed him while someone else untied the line from his waist. Another ripped Emma from him. He didn't need to look to know who.

"You're insane, boy!" Bee shouted, every line of muscle angry despite his eyes shining with relief and worry as he glanced at Emma's prone form. "M'lady?"

"Swan!" Killian hovered over her, one hand tangled in her wet hair while the other lightly tapped her cheek. "C'mon, love. Swan."

Trembling fingers pinched her nose as he tilted her head back and began to breathe for her. Her chest rose and fell. "C'mon, Swan," he whispered as he pulled away before diving in for another breath. "Don't do this to me, love," he pleaded. Another breath. "Emma, please."

There was a heavy pause before Emma suddenly coughed, spitting up water as she weakly turned her head to the side so she wouldn't choke. She continued to cough roughly, the salt water scratching her throat. Her first breaths came in wheezing shudders, and it took her a moment longer for her senses to begin to work.

She was cradled against Killian's chest. She knew it without opening her eyes. He held her to him tightly, one hand cradling the back of her head while he rested his forehead against hers. "You bloody infuriating woman," he muttered, meaning to sound harsh and failing miserably.

She opened her eyes to a familiar shade of blue, bright and clear and swimming with emotions she'd rather not name. "Hi," she croaked.

Killian wasn't sure what sound escaped him. It was meant to be a laugh. "Hello, darling."

Her eyes widened and she tried to sit up. "The ship . . ."

"Is fine," he said, smiling slightly at her concern for the _Jolly_. He looked up at the sky. "The storm is passing."

He wasn't wrong. The rain was a gentle, romantic pour, and the wind had ceased. Light began to filter through the clouds and the rock of the ship was soothing once more instead of deadly. Emma blinked. "Weird."

"I've never seen anything like it in all my years," Killian agreed. "Come on, Swan. Let's get you warm."

Emma shivered violently on cue. "Yeah." She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. "That's a good plan."

Killian nearly swept her into his arms but refrained when she shot him a knowing glare. He muttered under his breath but nonetheless allowed her to walk on her own. Emma was quiet as they entered his quarters, though she paused once she was down the stairs. She stared at the mess with wide eyes. Papers were everywhere. Books lay open on the floor. His desk and chair had been upended. The wardrobe had stayed upright but was cattycorner to the bed instead of at the foot of it.

"I bloody hate storms," he muttered, more to himself than to her, before meeting her eyes. Emma was surprised by the softness in his eyes. "I'll lend you a shirt."

"Thanks."

When he handed her the shirt, she looked at him pointedly until his eyes widened and his lips twisted into a smirk. "No need to be shy, Swan," he said.

She glared at him. "Turn around."

He rolled his eyes but nonetheless turned his back to her. Emma waited to see if he would sneak a peek before pulling off her soaked clothes. The thick material of her vest was waterlogged, and her shirt felt as thin as paper stuck to her skin. Each article of clothing hit the floor with a _splat_. For the second she stood naked, a shiver wracked her entire body, and Emma quickly pulled Killian's shirt over her head.

The effect was immediate, and she nearly told Killian that he could turn around until she looked down and realized she had far too much leg on display. Quickly, she darted onto the bed and hid her lower half under the blankets. "Okay," she said. "I'm decent."

Killian turned, a smirk on his lips and ten different innuendoes running through his mind, every single one of which was forgotten the second he laid eyes on Emma. She was obviously trying to cover up as much as she could, but it didn't matter. His shirt dwarfed her, yes, but the neckline dipped low to offer a teasing glimpse of her breasts and the soft black material against her pale skin and blonde hair made her look like an innocent vixen.

"Oh, no, love," he said, his voice low and his eyes more black than blue. "You are very much indecent."

The flush that immediately flooded her cheeks did nothing to help him. "Killian," she warned.

"It was just an observation."

"Yeah, well, observe somewhere else."

He sighed as his eyes were drawn to the chaos of his cabin. "Aye, lass," he said. "Perhaps you have a point."

He started by righting the desk and his chair, yet it was when he reached for his maps that his wound decided to flare painfully. The groan that escaped him was automatic and impossible to stifle. Emma's eyes narrowed from where she watched him on the bed. "You're hurt," she said.

"It's nothing, Swan," he said, setting the maps on his desk. "Try to sleep."

"It's your stitches," she insisted. "You pulled them, didn't you?"

"Darling . . ."

"Don't _darling_ me," she snipped. "Find me a needle and thread and let's take a look."

"I'm fine. Go to sleep."

"Killian."

"It's nothing that won't wait until morning."

"Stubborn pirate."

Without another word, she tossed back the blankets and marched right past him toward the cupboard where he kept the sewing kit. Killian stared at her as she stalked by him and the endless expanse of skin he was granted. His shirt was just long enough to cover her modesty but if she were to bend over . . .

"I must say, Swan, you look stunning in my clothes. Feel free to wear them more often."

Emma glared at him as she turned around. She was determined not to react to his flirtations or let on that she secretly felt a thrill of power parading in front of him in his clothes. "Sit down," she said.

Killian huffed but did as he was told. Emma lifted his shirt, strictly business, her brow furrowed and her lips pursed. She frowned when she saw the angry wound. Most of her stitches, to her relief, were still intact. Only five or so were missing, and though the wound was not bleeding badly, it was wide and gapping.

"I'm gonna need some rum," she said.

"You and me both, love," he said as he reached into his pocket for his flask. He handed it to her and watched as she splashed some on the wound. It stung fiercely, but he gritted his teeth. "Bloody waste of it," he muttered.

Emma snorted. "Yeah, because infections and death are so much fun."

"Point taken."

"Now hold still."

Killian was silent as she worked, and Emma's mind wandered with each stitch.

She'd nearly died, and despite the fact that she couldn't feel her toes and only the deepest concentration kept her fingers from shaking, Emma Swan was ecstatic to be alive. She glanced at Killian through her eyelashes, her fingers pausing their work for a moment as she remembered the way he'd held her on deck. He'd cradled her like she was precious, rested his forehead against hers like he was afraid she'd disappear.

And the way he'd looked at her . . .

No one had ever looked at her like that, and she realized in that moment that if she _had_ died, if she had never made it back to her world, absolutely no one would miss her. She'd known that, of course. She'd known that she had no one to miss her.

But maybe . . . maybe Killian would have.

 _Let me be clear, Swan . . . while I hold the utmost affection for you_ , _those feelings do not give you the right to use my brother against me . . ._

He cared about her. He'd made no secret of it. And had she died, some of her last words to him would've been cruel. She'd known bringing up Liam was a low blow. She'd known it and she'd used him anyway. Because Killian had been right. She'd wanted him to feel as guilty as she did.

"Swan?"

Emma looked up at him quickly and then returned to his stitches. "I'm sorry," she said. "About what I said about Liam. That wasn't fair."

Killian stared at her in disbelief. "You're sorry?" he repeated. " _I'm_ the one at fault, love. What I said about . . ." He shook his head and swallowed. "That was bad form." He winced as Emma started a new stitch, her touch rougher than before. "I deserve that," he allowed.

"I didn't do it on purpose, I . . ." she sighed as she tried to still her shaking hands, "it's just, well, you weren't wrong. I don't understand what it's like." Emma kept her eyes focused on the needle in her hand as she continued, "I almost died today, and you know, what? No one would miss me."

"I would."

There was nothing that could have kept Emma from meeting his eyes. She had to look at him to see if he was telling the truth. Her heart told her that it was true, but her brain refused to believe without evidence. She stared up at Killian and searched. And there was just a hint of a smile on his face, like he knew exactly what she was after, and her chest tightened when she saw nothing but truth in his eyes.

"There would not be a day when I wouldn't think of you, Swan," he said softly.

Emma smiled faintly. "Good."

She finished his stitches quickly and held out her hand for the rum. Killian expected her to pour more on the wound, but instead she took a hefty sip. He chuckled only to hiss when she then dabbed the liquor on his wound. She glared up at him. "I'm not doing this again," she warned. "So don't screw them up."

"Aye, love. I'll do my best."

She stood then, and Killian's eyes traveled her body from head to toe and back. "Hey, this isn't a free show," she said.

"Oh, but I insist."

"Tough."

Emma walked back toward the bed so he wouldn't see the small, pleased smirk on her face. Carefully, she climbed into bed and shoved her feet under the blankets. Her toes still felt like ice, and while her dose of rum had momentarily helped her trembling fingers, without the absolute need to keep them steady as she stitched up Killian, they began to shake once more until a shudder ripped through her entire body.

Killian frowned but rose carefully from the chair and pulled his shirt over his head, letting the damp material slap onto the floor. He glanced at Emma as his hands went to the laces of his pants. "Oi, turn around," he teased. Emma rolled her eyes but did as he asked. He smirked at the blush she'd failed to hide. "And no peeking," he added. "Although, if you really want to, well . . ."

Emma laughed into her pillow where she'd buried her face. "In your dreams, pirate."

The words were muffled, but Killian heard them easily enough. "Aye, love. And what great dreams they are," he continued as he stripped. "And I don't mean to upset you, darling," he quickly put on a pair of thin trousers and then slid into the bed, "but we make _quite_ the team."

Emma lifted her face from her pillow to look at him, blinking in surprise when his face was only inches from hers. "There's going to be no _teamwork_ tonight, buddy," she warned him.

He grinned. "So tomorrow, then?" She rolled her eyes and punched his shoulder. "That's okay, love," he said as he wrapped his too-warm hand around her wrist. "I'll wait."

She knew he wasn't just talking about sex. She could see it in his eyes. They weren't lust-driven and dark but honest and soft. Her cheeks flooded with heat but she couldn't look away from him, and for the first time she truly allowed herself to appreciate how attractive Killian Jones was. His blue eyes, even in the dark, were bright. His chiseled jaw was covered in scruff, and she wondered how rough it would feel against her skin. Her eyes settled on his lips.

She bet he tasted like rum.

Emma gently pulled her wrist from his grasp to place her hand on his cheek. His scruff scraped against her fingertips and she felt his jaw clench. She leaned in before she could convince herself she was making a horrible mistake, and her lips met his shyly.

Killian didn't hesitate. He kissed back softly, his hand coming up between them to cradle her face. His thumb tenderly caressed her cheek before his fingers slid into her hair where he dared to cup her head to bring her just the slightest bit closer.

She let him.

When she opened her mouth to him, he sent up a prayer to whatever gods were listening. _Let me keep her_. He never wanted to let her go.

Emma pulled away when her hand began to naturally drift to his chest. She didn't want to lead him on (or herself). It was just a kiss. It wasn't meant to make her feel . . . _light_. She felt as if she could float right up to the ceiling. Her stomach was in sailor's knots and she just wanted to _smile_. She shivered.

Half of her was terrified. The other half was simply cold.

When Killian pulled her into his arms, she tensed, her hands going to his chest to push him back, but then his lips were in her hair. "Ssh, love," he said quietly. "You're freezing, and if I have to watch you shiver one more time, I'm going to go mad." His hand—his very, very _warm_ hand—rubbed her back. "Let me help," he said. "That's why I'm here, you know," he added. "I didn't plan to be assaulted in my own bed."

Emma flushed. "You didn't seem worried."

"You've got a lecherous heart, Emma Swan," Killian said. "I'll not be used."

He pulled her closer to him anyway, and Emma went willingly. It was only logical to melt against him. She probably had a mild case of hypothermia anyway. Body heat was a cure. It was science.

It was really great science.

Emma slowly relaxed against him, subtly inhaling his scent. The sea and rum. No surprise. But she relaxed even further into his arms, and his touch miraculously became gentler. She raised her hand and placed it on his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath her palm. The gentle rhythm beneath her hand was so terribly honest and true, and suddenly she thought that this was the most intimate thing she'd ever done.

"What is this, Killian? Us."

He smiled. "I don't know, Swan, but I'm looking forward to figuring it out."

* * *

 **Well, would you look at that. More progress.**

 **Guess what?**

 **Next chapter, we have a _date_. No line for next chapter. That's all you need to know. Prepare yourselves. You will swoon.**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author''s Note: Hellooooooo! I just got home from spending a few days in Texas with my best friend I haven't seen in a year. I had pangs, guys. But now we've snuggled and enjoyed some good southern food and I'm home and ready to post.**

 **After all, we've got a date!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT.**

* * *

Chapter 9

Emma woke up first yet again.

The first thing she noticed, to her delight, was that she could feel all ten of her toes. She wiggled them just to make sure they were still there, smiling a little at her silliness.

The second thing she noticed was that she was a captive.

Killian was wrapped around her like he expected her to attempt an escape. Which, actually, wasn't all that far-fetched. Emma felt the need to move, to put space, _distance_ , between them. Because this was too close. _He_ was too close.

But he was warm.

"Relax, Swan." Contrary to his words, Emma tensed further, and he chuckled sleepily in her ear. "I won't bite unless you ask, love." Emma smiled. "Is that a smile?"

"No."

He hummed like he didn't believe her, his arms flexing briefly around her as his hand slid up to twine their fingers. "Go back to sleep. You nearly died yesterday."

Emma frowned at the reminder. "How'd you get me out of the water?" she asked suddenly, turning so that she could face him. "It was a crazy out there."

Killian's gaze darkened with the memory. "Aye," he agreed. "I didn't see you go overboard. I just looked up and you weren't there."

"Hey, that's not your fault."

"It's a Captain's duty to always know the happenings on his ship," he argued.

"But you saved me."

Killian looked away then, down to their twined hands. His thumb brushed against hers. "It wasn't me who saved you, Swan," he admitted. "I had every intention of jumping in after you, I promise, but Vincent was faster."

"Vincent?"

"Aye."

Emma watched Killian's eyes drift down to their hands again. Her eyes narrowed as he continued to avoid her gaze. "Killian, I'm not . . . I'm not _disappointed_ ," she said. "I know you would've saved me. It doesn't matter that Vincent was faster."

"He's your friend."

"Yes," she said honestly. "He's the first friend I've had in a long time."

Her words only seemed to dishearten him more, and Emma scrambled to understand why. What was the big deal about Vincent? He was just a friend, a kid who was nice to her and who had helped her learn a little about herself and who she might become if she stayed aboard the Jolly. She was grateful to him, and she definitely had plans to buy him a drink the next time they were in port, but she didn't see how that . . .

Oh.

 _Oh_.

"Are you jealous?" she asked and his jaw clenched. "Killian, hey," she pulled her hand from his to hold his jaw, forcing him to look at her. He was always so confident when he looked at her. She didn't like this uncertainty in him. Once his eyes met hers, she said, "Vincent is just a friend. You're . . ." _Come on, Emma, say it_ , ". . . you're more."

He stared at her like he wasn't certain whether to believe her, and Emma felt a strange mixture of anxiety and patience as she waited for him. Did he feel like this whenever she questioned him? She felt a stab of guilt. This was _maddening_. It wasn't a horrible feeling yet it wasn't a good feeling. It was like a persistent pressure on her chest, and it made her want to squirm.

"So you'll stay?"

Emma blinked. "What?"

"I thought you'd leave," he said. "After what I said, after what happened, I . . . I thought I'd ruined it. This."

He softly stroked his thumb over her cheek, and Emma couldn't believe it had taken her this long to see, to understand.

 _You and I, we understand each other._

He'd convinced her to come with him with those words. They'd resonated with her, sunk into her bones and made a home. But she hadn't really thought about them, those important words. She hadn't thought about what they really meant.

She was alone, and so was he.

She had been abandoned, and so had he.

And both of them were waiting for the other to leave, because neither one of them thought they deserved to stay.

"You didn't ruin anything," she said simply.

Killian's eyes brightened, and a stunned smile began to form. "I'm going to kiss you now, Swan," he warned.

Emma was proud when she didn't blush, but her voice gave her away. "Okay," she breathed.

He kissed her with the same quiet passion he had last night, and all Emma could think about was that she quite fancied the taste of rum in the morning.

The first thing Emma did when she went on deck was find Vincent, and she noted with some surprise (and a bit of possessiveness) that he was in her nest. She climbed up nonetheless, and he greeted her with a bright, relieved smile. "It's good to see you breathing, Emma," he said. "Alive is a good look on you."

Emma smirked as she sat beside him. "Thanks," she said dryly before her eyes softened and her smirk settled into a smile. "Really. Thank you, Vincent." She looked at his arm still in its sling. "Are you okay? You didn't hurt yourself jumping after me, did you?"

"Not my brightest idea," he admitted with a grin, "jumping into stormy waters with a bum arm. Didn't even notice in the moment, though." He bumped his shoulder with hers. "I'll be fine, lass."

Emma shook her head a little as she looked him in partial confusion. Old wounds full of abandonment and worthlessness welled within her chest. "I can't believe you jumped in after me," she said.

"What are friends for?" he said easily. "Between you and me, I haven't had much luck in the way of friends before. I like to keep the few I have." He glanced back at Killian who stood behind the wheel and gave him a respectful nod when their eyes met. "Same goes with Captains," he added. "He meant to go in after you, you know."

Emma smiled with pink cheeks. "I know."

Vincent grinned. "Couldn't have that, though," he said. "He's a strong swimmer, I'm sure, but I knew he might've drowned right along with you if he hadn't found you." Emma's eyes widened and his grin grew soft. "You really don't get it, do you, lass? The effect you have on people."

"I'm nothing special," she tried to argue, but he shook his head.

"Special people always say that. Part of their charm."

Emma abruptly shoved his shoulder, a playful smile on her lips. "Shut up."

"Eloquent as ever, lass."

"Don't you have work to do?"

"Orderin' me about, are you? I wasn't aware this was your ship." His grin suddenly turned devious. "Or has the Captain finally made you his first mate?"

Emma's eyes widened as her face blossomed in a vivid shade of red. "Shut _up_ ," she repeated. "I haven't been . . . _promoted_ , thank you very much."

"That's alright. Means I've still got a chance."

Her stomach dropped. "A what?"

Vincent laughed at her horrified look. "Relax, lass. I was talking about the pool."

"The _what_?"

"The crew's bettin' on you and the Captain."

"On if we've . . . you can't be serious!"

"Oh, but I am, my dear, dear, _blushing_ friend," Vincent cackled. "Don't be offended. I'm on your side. Said you weren't that type of woman to, uh, board a ship without a care."

Emma sniffed. "Well, you're right about that."

"Oh, I know. The crew's caught on as well. Now, it's just a matter of time."

"You're betting on _when_? There's not gonna be a _when_ ," she insisted quickly, despite her memory of the wonderfully sensual, toe-curling kisses that morning.

Vincent's jaw dropped and a wide grin threatened to split his face. "Oh, but you've thought about it, haven't you? Thinking of having your way with the Captain?"

"No!"

"Tell me all about it. This is a nest of trust, here."

"So we've kissed," she hissed suddenly. "It's not a big deal."

"But it _is_. How was it?"

Emma huffed as she tried to calm her thundering heart. Half of her was panicked. Why was she spilling her guts to Vincent? She shouldn't. She should keep her feelings to herself. It was safer that way. She _knew_ that.

"Emma?" She looked over at Vincent, who no longer wore a teasing smirk but a hesitant frown. "I don't mean to push, lass. I was just havin' you on. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

"No, it's . . . I just haven't had many friends before either. I'm out of practice." Emma looked down at her hands to hide her embarrassed blush until Vincent reached over and took her hand. He squeezed gently.

"That's alright, lass. You just have to do me one favor."

Emma looked up curiously. "What?"

"When you finally pillage our good Captain, let me know, would you?" He grinned. "There's _hell_ of a lot of money in that pool."

Emma's eyes narrowed. "Fine," she agreed. " _If_ it happens, and I mean _if_ . . . you split that pool with me. Fifty-fifty."

Vincent's eyes narrowed. "Seventy-thirty."

"Are you kidding me? I'm doing all the work."

"We'll see what the Captain has to say about that."

"Shut _up_ , Vincent," she hissed. He chuckled. "Fifty-fifty."

Vincent sighed but shook her hand. "You drive a hard bargain, Emma Swan."

"I wasn't aware you were on my ship to flirt with Miss Swan, Mr. Turner," Killian suddenly called, causing both Emma and Vincent to jump apart and turn toward the helm. "I'm sure there are plenty of things on this ship that require your attention. Perhaps you should find one."

Vincent grinned. "Aye, Captain," he called back. "But none of them are so pretty!"

The crew laughed, and Killian's eyes narrowed. Emma blushed as Vincent turned to climb down from the nest. She followed after him. "What the hell are you doing?" she whispered. "You're just making him mad."

Vincent chuckled, his grey eyes flashing with mischief. "He's a jealous one, isn't he? You shouldn't be mad. You should be thanking me."

Emma scoffed. "You're an idiot."

"I'm only trying to help you, lass."

"I don't need you to be my wingman."

"What's a wingman?"

"He's someone that . . . you know, what? Get to work, sailor."

Emma jumped down onto the deck, and Vincent soon followed, but not before shooting her a salute, clipping his heels together, and saying, "Aye, Mum."

"I hate you," she hissed when the crew laughed again.

Vincent winked and scuttled away before she could hit him. She scowled at his back, much to the crew's amusement, before spinning abruptly to climb the stairs to the helm. Killian had his compass open in front of him, brows furrowed as he checked their course, and she had to smile a little at the smug smirk that twisted lips before he snapped the compass shut.

"Are we on course, Captain?"

His smirk deepened as he met her gaze. "Aye, love," he said as he held out his hand toward her. Cautiously, she took his hand, and he smiled as he pulled her to him, placing a possessive kiss on the back of her hand. "You should call me _Captain_ more often, Swan," he said, his voice low. "It's terribly attractive."

Emma rolled her eyes when he cocked that ridiculous eyebrow of his. "Uh huh," she said dryly. "I'm not about to stroke your ego."

Killian's eyes danced. "I have something else you can stroke, if you like."

Emma hung her head. "I walked right into that one, didn't I?" she muttered. Killian chuckled and gave her hand a squeeze before letting go. "Where are we going?"

"Tortuga." The name stirred in Emma's mind. She frowned. "Swan? What is it?"

"I don't know," she admitted. "But I could swear I've heard that name before."

"Really?"

"Yeah." She shook her head. "So, what's in Tortuga?"

"With any luck, a job."

"I didn't think you worked for anyone."

"I don't," he said honestly. "I do, however, occasionally offer to transport certain items of . . . questionable legality. For a price, of course."

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Smuggling."

"Aye."

"Sounds . . ." she frowned, slightly surprised by the disappointment she felt. "Boring."

Killian grinned. "If done right, yes." His smile faded somewhat as he looked out at the sea briefly as he added, "I thought that, perhaps, you might appreciate a quieter aspect of piracy. Much less confrontational, smuggling."

Emma fought against the small smile that wanted to form and ultimately failed. He was doing this for her. "Thank you, Killian."

"I don't want you to think that I take what you were forced to do lightly," he said quietly. "Ending a man's life is a burden I never meant to place on you."

"Hey, I made my choices."

"I don't want you to think me heartless, Swan. I may be a pirate, but I like to think I'm an honorable one."

Emma smiled shyly. "That sounds like good form, Captain," she assured him, and he smiled before turning away from her to adjust their course, turning the wheel two spokes to port. Then he drummed his fingers over the wheel, which Emma thought was odd. Killian Jones didn't have nervous ticks. Well, except for . . .

He scratched nervously behind his ear.

Emma's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Killian summoned his courage. "Would you have dinner with me tonight?"

"We have dinner every night," she said, brows furrowed.

If he wasn't so nervous, he would've laughed. Gods, this woman would be the death of him. "Yes, Swan, we do, but this would be more . . . intimate."

Emma blinked in surprise before a little smile toyed at the edge of her lips. "Are you asking me out on a date?"

"Yes."

"Okay," she said, shocking him with how easily she agreed. He'd expected a fight. "But just so you know, I don't pillage and plunder on a first date."

Killian smirked. "Well, that's because you haven't been out with me yet."

* * *

Emma wasn't nervous until the sun began to set, and she realized that she had nowhere to go.

There was nowhere for her to get ready, nowhere for them to _go_. There was just Killian's quarters. Her quarters.

(And no, it was certainly not _their_ quarters.)

What happened when dinner was over? Did she kick him out? Did he expect to stay? As in _stay_.

Sure, they'd shared a bed the past two nights, but only because both of them had had a brush with death. Killian had been weak with blood loss. She'd been hypothermic. Had the seizure of the naval ship not gone wrong, had the storm not come, Emma knew that the whole bed-sharing episode wouldn't have happened. The kiss certainly wouldn't have happened, and likely this _date_ wouldn't be happening.

But it had happened. It _was_ happening.

Dear god, she was going on a date with no way out.

She couldn't make an excuse about needing to be home or that she had to get up early for work tomorrow or even that she'd promised to meet a friend. Her best shot at finding some space was literally saying that she needed some space. Emma thought the politest way she could put it was needing fresh air.

And that just sounded pitiful in her head, not to mention the fact that Killian would _know_.

 _You and I, we understand each other._

Damn.

She didn't know how to _do_ this. Her dating life was hilariously, depressingly limited. She hadn't dated in school. Who wanted the angry orphan? Then there'd been Neal. They hadn't dated. They'd just gotten together, right from the start. The only time she thought they got close to a "date" was when they'd broken into an amusement park with coffee and sat in the swings.

After jail she'd gone through a year-long dry spell before she'd gotten drunk one night in a bar and found herself in bed with a guy the next morning. She hadn't liked the situation one bit. He'd tried to make her breakfast in the morning, which she saw as a sign of guilt rather than politeness, and she hadn't wanted pity. So she'd grabbed her clothes and bolted.

The next time, with the next guy, she made sure to leave right after he fell asleep.

Emma didn't know how to date. She'd never really been on one, and part of her found that cynically humorous. Of all the things she'd experienced in life, a date was something that had passed her by, and as she watched the sun set, as the crew finished their tasks and methodically went to the galley below, leaving her alone with nothing but her own growing panic, Emma thought the whole situation was completely insane.

Because, naturally, her first date was with the captain of a fucking pirate ship in the Enchanted Forest.

Of _course_ it was.

She waited until she was the last person on deck aside from Killian. He relinquished the wheel, locking their course, before strolling up to her with that little smirk of his that he damn well knew annoyed her. She automatically rolled her eyes in response, and the panic in her veins dulled. "Why don't you go below, Swan?" he suggested. "I'll return with our meal."

The idea of Killian playing waiter amused her. "So you're serving me, huh?" she teased.

"I _am_ a gentleman."

"Says the _dashing_ _rapscallion_."

He preened. "Aye, love. Now, if you would be so kind," he gestured grandly toward his quarters, "I'll be gone but a moment."

Emma smiled slightly but nodded. She kept her head down as she passed him, letting her hair hide her blush and the panic boiling in her eyes. It was just a date. Just one measly little date. Right? It didn't _really_ mean anything.

First dates were all about getting to know each other, right? You talked about your past and your family and your job and your dreams. Right? That was expected. It _should_ be easy.

Emma groaned internally. _Nothing_ about this was easy. She didn't want to talk about her past as a runaway and a foster kid. She didn't want to talk about Neal. She had no family to speak of. And dreams? Those were just ridiculous fantasies she'd come up with as a kid.

What was left to talk about? The weather?

She was so consumed with her thoughts that she initially didn't notice the candles. She walked right by the desk and straight toward the looking glass that he kept in his chest. Holding it up in front of her, she cringed at the dirt on her face and the tangles in her hair. The urge to suddenly make herself decent overcame her. She fleetingly wished she had a dress, but squashed the thought immediately. She was _not_ making a big deal of this.

It was just a damn dinner. They had dinner every night. This was absolutely _no_ different.

That, ironically, was the moment when she finally noticed the candles.

Two tall red candles burned softly on the desk that had been cleared of its maps and sextant. The desk was set exactly like a table, with two place settings on either side, complete with polished silverware resting atop cream-colored napkins. A bottle of wine and a bowl of brightly colored fruit sat in the middle of the desk like a centerpiece next to a plate of bread and cheese. She sniffed experimentally. It was fresh.

Looks like she was buying Vincent _and_ Wallace the Cook a drink once they were in port.

Emma's eyes drifted back to the candles with a sinking feeling in her gut that she refused to accept as nerves. She _wasn't_ nervous. To be nervous meant that she cared. That this—date, dinner, _thing_ —mattered.

But she suddenly flew into action, grabbing the looking glass and furiously searching through his chest for a comb. She found one, far too feminine for a pirate—a keepsake?—and used it to smooth her hair. She growled once her hair was brushed but flat and lifeless. Carefully, she pulled it up into a high ponytail that made her look softer. Almost innocent.

Hearing footsteps on deck, she hurried to the washbowl and wiped her face, removing the dirt and grime of the day. She just had time to pat herself dry and pinch her cheeks for some color before she heard Killian on the stairs. Emma spun to see him carrying a large silver tray full of what smelled like ham.

Her mouth watered, and she was reminded of the fact that she hadn't eaten all day. Great. Now this date was just going to be her stuffing her face like a, well, a _pig_.

Killian smiled when he saw her. "You look beautiful, Swan."

She scoffed even as her cheeks warmed. "Don't get too excited," she said. "All I did was put my hair up."

"Always so modest, love."

Her eyes rolled. "Just set the food down so we can eat," she said. "I'm starving."

"Of course."

Emma took her pick of thick-cut slices of ham and potatoes while Killian poured the wine. Of course, this was after he had pulled out her chair for her, a gesture that had startled her and amused him. She sipped her wine nervously. Her wine knowledge was nonexistent, but she knew from the taste that this was one damn good bottle. She drained her glass too quickly, and Killian refilled it with a small smirk.

"Nervous, love?"

Emma focused on cutting her ham into manageable bites. "No."

"It's hardly something to be ashamed of."

"I'm not ashamed," she said simply as she continued to carve into her ham, "because I'm not nervous."

"I am."

Though his admission cost him some pride, Killian was rewarded with Emma's attention. Her eyes snapped up to meet his, her lips parted slightly in surprise and curled faintly with amusement. "You are?" she asked.

"Aye," he nodded. "To be perfectly honest with you, Swan, I've never courted a woman before."

Emma's smile grew. "This is your first date," she said, loving the fact that for once, it was Killian blushing. She swore she could see a hint of pink in his cheeks, and she nearly laughed, until she looked into his eyes and saw the vulnerability there. God, he _was_ nervous. Emma felt a swift pang of sympathy and something else she couldn't quite name, but her chest felt unusually warm. She looked at the candles burning softly between them, bathing them both in a warm glow. "It's my first date, too," she admitted.

Killian raised an eyebrow. "I find that hard to believe."

"Yeah, well. Being a runaway didn't leave much time for dating."

"Nor, I'm afraid, does being a pirate."

"What?" Emma smirked. "You don't have a girl waiting for you in every port?"

"More than one, actually," he retorted lightly before growing serious, a heavy weight in his eyes that Emma recognized. Loneliness. "But alas, it's merely a dalliance."

"A one-time thing," she said softly.

Killian smiled slightly. "Exactly. It doesn't do well to get . . . attached."

"It's safer. People leave."

"Aye, darling. That they do."

"So who left you?"

Killian paused, his wine goblet halfway to his lips. Emma watched as his fingers tightened around the goblet. His eyes tightened with an old pain that she understood all too well, and she suddenly felt stupid for asking. "Sorry," she said quickly. "That's not really a first date question, is it? Forget about it."

"Perhaps," he agreed. "Wounds that were made when we're young tend to linger."

Emma looked down at her plate. She still keenly felt the pain of the Swans, the only people she had ever called "Mom" and "Dad", telling her that she couldn't live with them anymore. "Yeah," she agreed. "That's true." She shook her head and took a large gulp of wine. "Okay, that's depressing. Tell me something funny."

Killian raised his eyebrows. "Like what?"

"I don't know," she shrugged. "Most embarrassing thing you've done when you were drunk."

"I'll have you know, Swan, that I can hold my rum."

"What decent pirate captain can't?"

"Precisely," he said smartly, even as he shrugged, looking as close to sheepish as she thought he could manage, and added, "Although, perhaps I've made some . . . questionable choices."

Emma smiled. "Like?"

"Well," he scratched behind his ear, "I might have, when I was younger, mind, decided that I could speak Mermish."

"Mermish?"

"Aye, the language of the mermaids."

"Mermaids are real?"

"Are you going to let me embarrass myself or not?"

"Sorry. Go ahead."

"Thank you." Killian took a sip of wine. "You see, Swan, the issue with speaking Mermish is that it can only be spoken underwater."

Emma closed her eyes and held her head in her hand. "Oh god. You didn't."

Killian chuckled. "I dove right in the water to prove it. Nearly drowned myself."

"That's not embarrassing. That's just stupid."

"Oh, no, lass. That's not the embarrassing part. A woman at the docks saw me jump and actually hauled me out. She was a real tough lass. Had arms as big as mine."

"So you got saved by a woman," Emma smirked. "Must've hurt your manhood."

"Interesting choice of words." Killian looked down with a begrudging smile on his lips before he looked up with a sigh and continued, "You see, before jumping into the water, I—for some reason I still do not understand—decided that the mermaids wouldn't come to me unless I enticed them. So . . . I stripped down to my bare skin."

Emma nearly spit out her wine as she laughed. "You were _enticing_ them, huh?"

"I _am_ devilishly handsome."

She smiled, close-lipped but undoubtedly amused. Killian liked to think he saw something resembling fondness in her eyes. "So a big, butch woman saved your drunk, naked ass," she said.

"Aye, but that's not the worst part."

"How does this story get _worse_?"

"Well, the water was rather cold . . . and quite the crowd had gathered . . ."

Emma buried her face in her hands with a groan, followed by a quick, stifled giggle. "And you're naked," she said. "How cold was the water?"

"Bloody freezing," Killian laughed. "My _manhood_ , as you say, wasn't in good form."

Emma snorted into her goblet. "That _is_ bad form, isn't it, Captain?"

Once their laughter faded and they paused to take a few bites from their plates, Killian looked up with a mischievous light in his eye and said, "You realize it's your turn, Swan."

And that was how Emma explained to him the horror of the time when she got her shirt caught in a revolving door at the mall.

The candles continued to slowly burn as Killian and Emma traded stories. Most were light-hearted and funny, a few of them bittersweet. They opened another bottle of wine once it was time for desert, and Emma nearly started a food fight when she threw a piece of cheese at his head when he implied that she couldn't hold her liquor after she'd suggested that they stop for the night. Now, that second bottle of wine was nearly gone, as was the cheese that went with it, and Killian suggested that they go on deck for fresh air.

He didn't understand why the suggestion reduced Emma to a fit of drunken giggles.

The night was breathtakingly clear, not one cloud in the sky. It seemed to Emma entirely too bright with the light shining from the stars and the moon. She almost asked that they go back to the cabin, where the candles still burned with their soft, little flames, but she pressed her lips together before the words could slip. Although the night seemed far from its end, she still had enough wits to know that she'd be sending the wrong impression if she said she wanted to go back below.

So she followed him to the rail, placing her hands on the smooth wood and listening to the water brush against the hull. "I never knew how much I loved the water until I was on this ship," she said.

"You said you lived near the water in your realm."

"Yeah, and it was nice. I went to the beach sometimes, but it wasn't the same."

"Why not?"

"I was alone." Her voice was soft and measured as she stared at the water. "The sea is this giant, endless, powerful thing. You stand on the beach and stare and it's all you see and suddenly you feel so, so incredibly small."

"But now it's different."

"Yeah. I'm . . . I'm part of it, now. I mean, the sea's terrifying and huge, but it's beautiful and it's strong and that's . . . I'm part of it here."

Killian smiled. "Aye, love."

"Do you think you could ever give it up?" she asked.

"Give up what, darling? The sea? Piracy?"

Emma laughed. "I think you'll always be a pirate," she said, looking up at him with a smirk. "I'm talking about the sea, the Jolly."

He was quiet for a long moment, and his eyes were suddenly too intense for her to meet. "Depends, I suppose," he finally said.

"On what?"

"Who's asking."

Emma blinked, and for a second she thought that the wine had truly gone to her head, because surely he wasn't implying what she thought he was implying. Because this was Killian Jones, Captain of the Jolly Roger. He was a pirate. He answered to no one. He didn't _give_ _in_ to anyone.

But with the way he was looking at her, she had the silly thought that he might give in to her.

"Share a dance with me, Swan?"

The question pulled her from her reverie, and she gladly went. Those were dangerous thoughts, dangerous because she wanted to believe them, to think that maybe, just maybe, she meant that much to someone, to _him_. But that was ridiculous. He'd only known her for a month. One little month. He may understand her, but he certainly didn't _know_ her.

But wait, what was he asking? A dance?

She looked around the deck. "There's no music."

"Well, then," he said lightly as he took her hand and slowly tugged her away from the rail, "I guess I'll have to improvise."

Killian watched fondly as Emma cautiously stepped into his arms, her hand tentatively resting on his shoulder. He pretended she didn't tense under his touch when his hand rested lightly on her back. "I don't dance," she warned.

He grinned. "It's simple," he assured her. "There's only one rule." She raised her brow, and he tugged her closer. "Pick a partner who knows what he's doing."

He stepped toward her then, she took a step back, and then much to Emma's surprise, they began to move together seamlessly. Killian smiled down at her, his heart warming when she flushed but smiled back at him instead of looking away as she usually did. She wasn't hiding from him.

He knew that she would, eventually. When the glow of the wine faded, perhaps tomorrow morning, she would once again pull away from him. He accepted that. It was simple to accept, really, since he had every intention to tug her right back to him.

So he summoned his courage and prepared to reveal a part of himself that he kept very close to his heart. He began to sing. He didn't stop, even when Emma stared up at him in shock, her feet now mindlessly following his as he sang about mermaids sending sailors to their deaths and fair lasses from exotic shores.

They danced until Killian finally fell quiet under the weight of Emma's stare. She was slightly out of breath as she stared up at him like she didn't know what to make of him, and her fingers flexed around his shoulder as if she needed to make sure he was real. Finally, she said, "I didn't know you could sing."

"Very few do," he said softly before correcting himself, "Did. You're the only one, now."

"Liam."

"Aye, the man couldn't carry a tune to save his life." He smiled slightly. "I quite enjoyed the knowledge that I had bested him in at least one aspect. Tis an unfortunate thing to be a sailor and unable to sing. Makes for a dull sail."

Emma smiled. If anything had been made clear to her during her time aboard the Jolly Roger, it was that sailors liked to sing. Bee usually led the chorus as they manned the sails, his deep voice carrying easily above the waves. She'd learned her fair share of sea shanties already, but it wasn't until this moment that she realized Killian never sang along.

"Why don't you sing with the crew?" she asked. "You _are_ the Captain."

"Aye, lass," he agreed with a slight smile as he ran his hands down her arms to lace his fingers with hers. He held their twined hands up between them, marveling at the feel of her small, slender fingers against his own larger, calloused ones. "You're quite right, but it's a talent I prefer to keep to myself."

"It's personal."

"My mother died when I was a wee lad, and the only real memory I have of her is when she sang," he said softly. "I can't remember her voice, but I know it soothed me."

Emma gently squeezed his hands. "One more dance?" she asked hesitantly, feeling slightly guilty for asking yet refusing to take it back. The idea that he was willing to share something so personal to her was intoxicating. It was unbelievable, and she wanted him to prove it again. It wasn't at all fair, but she couldn't stop herself.

She needed more proof.

Killian glanced at their hands before nodding. "One more," he agreed.

He tried to resume their previous position but Emma stopped him. Instead of the proper ballroom hold, she stepped forward and looped her arms around his neck. His eyes widened slightly in surprise even as his hands naturally went to her waist. Emma smiled shyly. "This is how we dance in my world," she said. "Sometimes. For a slow song."

"I quite like some things about your world, love," he said as he teasingly brought her closer until her chest as pressed against his. "Very much so."

Emma looked away but didn't do anything to put space between them. Instead she laid her head on his shoulder and waited for him to sing. Killian looked down at the top of her head, marveling at how much trust she'd given him, and suddenly felt the need to return the favor, even if she didn't know it.

So he decided that their last song of the night would be his mother's favorite, the very first song he'd ever learned, the one that he remembered listening to as she sang him to sleep.

"Oh, the summer time is coming

And the trees are sweetly blooming

Where the wild mountain thyme

Grows around the blooming heather

Would you go, lassie, go?

And we'll all go together,

Where the wild mountain thyme

Grows around the blooming heather

Would you go, lassie, go?"

They moved in a slow circle, Killian letting Emma lead them as he sang softly in her ear.

"And I will build my love a bower

And yon' pure crystal fountain

And around it I will place

All the colors of the mountain

Would you go, lassie, go?

"And we'll all go together

Where the wild mountain thyme

Grows around the blooming heather.

Would you go, lassie, go?

Emma let one of her hands slip from his neck to slide to his chest, smiling slightly when she felt his quick heartbeat beneath her palm. Killian's hand came up to cover hers.

"And if my true love's gone,

I will surely find another.

And to her I will sing

Things that make her know I want her.

So would you go, lassie, go?

"And we'll all go together

Where the wild mountain thyme

Grows around the blooming heather.

Would you go, lassie, go?"

The song ended but they kept turning in small circles for another moment before Killian finally stopped and held her still. Emma lifted her head from his shoulder to stare at him. He met her gaze without flinching, just as he always did, always open, always willing to let her see whatever she desired. Like an open book.

And there was power in it, safety in it. She was in control.

So she didn't hesitate. She slid her fingers into his hair and kissed him.

* * *

 **Annnnnndddd cut!**

 **That is totally one of my favorite scenes in this whole story.**

 **See you Friday,**

 **AC**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Notes: Hellllooooooooooo! Okay, let me just say that the response from last chapter was fabulous! I am so glad that y'all liked it and were dealing with feels overload. Thank you to everyone who reviews, alerts, and favorites. We're just getting started with this story.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. Seriously, you think I'd be writing fanfic if I did? . . . Okay, you got me there. I'd still be writing.**

* * *

Chapter 10

Emma was in her spot.

The deck was clear, the sky more grey than pink. She sat with her knees pulled to her chest, her arms loosely wrapped around her legs as she stared at the horizon. It had a calming effect. There was something faraway and mysterious about it. No matter how far or fast they sailed, they would never catch it. The horizon was just _there_ , and it always would be.

Compared the vastness of the sea, the thought was comforting.

She needed that comfort.

It was ridiculous on many levels, she supposed, that she felt so torn after such a good night. Her mind replayed the night over and over, memorizing every detail—the way Killian's eyes crinkled when he'd laughed at her stories, the taste of that second bottle of wine, the reflection of the moon on the waves, the sound of Killian's voice in her ear, the warmth of his hand on her back.

Then there was the kiss.

She would always remember every searing second of it.

But she would also remember other things. She'd remember feeling the undeniable urge to give in to him. She'd remember feeling like it was safe to do so. She'd remember looking into his eyes and hoping that he might stay.

And hope was scary. Emma Swan had not dared to hope for anything in a very long time.

Everything was just happening so _fast_. So much had changed so quickly. Too quickly. One day she's a bail bonds person and the next she's meeting with sorcerers in the Enchanted Forest. One day she's entirely independent and the next she's hopelessly lost. She'd been forced to rely on someone for the first time in years. Maybe ever.

And of all people, that person had to have been Killian Jones.

If they had met in her world, she knew for a fact that she would have treated him like any other man. He would have been another one-time thing. Even knowing Killian as she did, she thought that under those circumstances, he might have let her go. Even if he hadn't, even if he'd tried for something more, she would've been able to get away from him. She would've been able to run.

But in the Enchanted Forest the farthest she could go was her little nest.

She was forced to deal with him, with his feelings, and therefore forced to deal with her own. And there was a part of her that resented him for it. That tough orphan, the girl who'd learned to be alone, she didn't appreciate being trapped on this damn ship with Killian Jones. That girl wanted to get away. That girl was alone. She understood being alone. Being alone was safe.

And that was the crux of the matter. That was what had sent Emma scampering up to her nest: Killian Jones made her feel safe.

After their dance, after their kiss, what she had spent the majority of the day dreading had come to pass. She'd descended the steps to his quarters with thoughts of pillaging and plundering and bets running rampantly through her mind. Killian's steps behind her had echoed in her chest like heartbeats.

She'd been a mess of energy but too nervous to do anything about it. So her muscles had been tense and frozen. When he'd placed a hand on her shoulder, she'd nearly jumped out of her skin. "Easy, Swan." He'd put his hands on her shoulders before stepping closer, hands sliding down her arms to lace their fingers together. He liked doing that, holding her hand. She'd looked down at their hands to avoid looking at him. "What's wrong, love?"

And that's when she'd snapped. His voice had been so soft, so concerned, and she hadn't been able to handle it. Him. "I can't do this," she said, pulling her hands from his and taking a step away from him. "You. Me. I-I can't, I'm not . . ."

Killian waited patiently, the soft look in his eyes never fading. "Not what, Swan?"

"Ready." She'd felt like a damn teenager saying it, like she was some inexperienced girl dealing with her first serious boyfriend, but dammit, it was _true_. "Look, if we do this, it's just gonna be—"

"A one-time thing," he finished.

He hadn't looked disappointed or hurt, which had only made her feel worse, but she'd nodded. "And I . . . you don't deserve that."

 _You deserve more._

She hadn't said it, but she knew he heard it anyway. His eyes had softened impossibly more, bright blue even in the faint light of the candles. Gently, he'd tilted her chin up, his thumb brushing along her jaw. "Neither do you, Emma," he said. "I'll wait. I'm in this for the long haul."

And her heartbeat had stuttered, because they weren't just talking about sex anymore. "You might be waiting a long time," she managed.

"Darling, I'd wait centuries for you."

He'd been serious. She'd stared and stared, searching for the lie, but it never came. He'd smiled softly at her confusion, her surprise, as if he found it all endearing. "Why would you do that?" she asked.

"Because a man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets. And you, Emma Swan, are worth fighting for." He'd said it all with a little smile, like she was his best-kept secret, and she'd finally relaxed enough to blush and look away. "I'll leave you to your rest."

And she'd known she was playing with fire when she'd reached out to grab his hand, but she'd done it anyway. "Stay? Not like . . . just, stay. I'm tired of kicking you out of your own bed."

"Swan, I don't mind."

"I do. Look, we managed just fine the past few nights."

"Those were different circumstances, love."

"I know."

And God help her if he hadn't merely smiled as if he'd known exactly what she wasn't saying and nodded, "As you wish."

So now here she was the next morning hiding in the crow's nest. He'd given her exactly what she'd asked for, what she'd wanted, and so she was ignoring him. Emma cast a cautious look over her shoulder. Killian stood behind the wheel like it was any other morning. _How was he acting like it was any other morning?_

He'd _Princess Brided_ her for Christ's sake!

"As you wish," she mumbled, hating the way her lips twitched upward. "Who actually says that. Oh, that's right. Piercing-eyed smoldering pirates."

Emma straightened her back abruptly. No, she was _not_ going to do this. She wasn't a schoolgirl, this wasn't a damn crush, and she was better than this. Yes. She was going to act like nothing was different, because it _wasn't_ , and carry on like Killian Jones hadn't reawakened her belief in something as silly as love.

So she went down on deck with the crew and started to work. It was easy to get lost in the hustle and bustle of the deck. There was always something to do. She helped Bee with the rigging as usual, even as Vincent followed her around trying to learn details about her "date." She spent a good hour learning how to fish with Ace, who seemed to have more fun watching her fail than succeed, and when she'd finally managed to catch one and keep it, he'd merely hung his head and said, "Well done, lassie."

It was all _work, work, work, work_ until it suddenly wasn't. There was a rare moment of stillness, and it hardly took the crew anytime to make use of it. A few struck up a game of liar's dice, but Emma stayed away from it. She'd already lost three gold coins to Bee and had no plans of losing anymore. Vincent retreated into the crow's nest with a book that he always kept in his pocket. Others simply sat and relaxed as the boat gently glided over the waves.

Emma bravely went to the helm.

* * *

Killian had been waiting for her to come to him.

He'd known she would— _hoped_ she would—but he wouldn't deny that every time she pulled away from him, a little voice in the back of his mind warned him she wouldn't come back, that his pursuit of her was futile. Yet it was impossible for him not to keep pursuing her. He wanted her. It was a deep, aching feeling that transcended simple desire. It was . . . well, he didn't know exactly what it was, but it was possessive, it was fierce, it was maddening, and it was bloody _brilliant_.

It took all his restraint not to pull her into his arms and kiss her for the whole crew to see. He wanted them to know that she was is, and he smiled to himself as he watched Emma make her way toward him, imagining her ire if she knew his thoughts.

 _I don't belong to anyone, pirate._

He adored that little scowl of hers.

"What are you smiling at?" she asked once she'd climbed the stairs.

"It's a lovely day, Swan," he said, turning to face her while keeping one hand on the wheel. "Even a pirate can appreciate the simpler things in life." She rolled her eyes but said nothing. Killian cocked an eyebrow when she casually slipped her hand into his, but she pointedly ignored him. He grinned. "You're holding my hand, love."

"Don't make a big deal out of it, pirate," she muttered.

He made a correction to their course, his inordinately pleased grin never fading. Emma scoffed lightly under her breath, but he only squeezed her hand. They were quiet for a while, and it struck Emma as odd that she felt no need to fill the silence. She was . . . content.

The crew struck up a song as she and Killian manned the helm, and she had to smile when she recognized the song. It was one of the many Killian had sung for her last night, the one about the mermaid. In the light of day, the song sounded far more jaunty and loud than she thought it should. She preferred Killian's sweeter version.

Killian glanced down at her with a smirk. "What are you smiling at?" he asked, surprised when Emma shyly ducked her head.

"Nothing," she said lightly.

"C'mon, Swan." He squeezed her hand. "What is it?"

Emma sighed quietly. "It's just, well," she began before looking up at him with a small smile, "I know something they don't." Her eyes trailed over the crew moving around on deck. Killian followed her gaze. "You sang that song to me last night," her voice was so soft Killian had to strain to hear it, "and they have no idea. They don't know you can sing, but I do." She shrugged abruptly, the air between them suddenly too intimate. "How 'bout that, huh?" she teased.

Killian smiled. "Indeed, love."

The lull in work lasted another ten minutes before the winds suddenly changed and he began barking orders. Killian watched Emma out of the corner of his eye, wondering yet again about the little smile on her lips, but she only smirked at him when she caught him looking, squeezed his hand, and said, "Aye, Captain."

Then she was off to help sail his ship.

He watched her move on deck with a smile of his own. It had never been his intention for her to work like his crew, yet he hadn't been too surprised when her first morning on the _Jolly_ was spent learning how to sail. He'd noticed Vincent take her under his wing and had thought little of it, as the lad was the youngest aboard and therefore lowest on the totem pole. It was logical that the quiet sailor would take advantage of the opportunity to embrace some authority as a teacher.

The reactions of the rest of the crew, however, had truly surprised him. He'd never been worried about bringing Emma aboard. His crew knew the price of disobedience. They would do as they were told, and he had explained to them, in beautifully horrific detail, the price they would pay should they harm Emma. He'd purposefully left what constituted as "harm" extremely vague.

Yet aside from a handful of leers in the first few days, Killian had been somewhat surprised yet undeniably pleased when the crew took to Emma's presence like fish to water. He watched as Bee taught her how to rig the sails. He proudly (if silently) cheered when she caught her first fish with Ace. Even her growing friendship with Vincent made Killian far happier than jealous (most of the time).

She fit, Emma Swan _fit_ . . . into his life, into his world, she just . . . she just _fit_ _right in_ , and he'd be damned if it didn't make him feel a sense of peace that he hadn't known since Liam's death.

They sailed into the night, using the light of the full moon as their guide. The only time Emma ever paused in her work was when one of the crew would begin to sing, and every time without fail, she would catch his eyes at the helm and give him that secretive little smile of hers that was in some ways just as shy as it was smug. Killian would return it more times than not, although occasionally he'd merely wink at her just to watch her scowl and blush and stubbornly focus her attention on her work.

When he finally dismissed the crew for the night, it was late yet he wasn't tired. He watched Emma disappear below with a hint of anticipation before locking the wheel and following after her. He never quite knew what he'd find whenever he entered his quarters, and this time was no different.

He laughed.

He did that a lot now.

"Comfortable, love?"

Emma mumbled into her pillow. He laughed again as he went over to sit beside her on the bed, glancing at her sprawled form over his shoulder as he tugged his boots off. "You didn't even bother to remove your boots, Swan," he chided.

She mumbled again into the pillow, but wordlessly raised her feet and violently toed off her boots, sending one rocketing into the wardrobe while the other slid slowly from her foot to drop onto the chest at the foot of the bed. Killian neatly set his boots to the side before collapsing onto the bed next to her. With her arms tucked under her pillow, her elbow dug into his shoulder, but he didn't mind even if he'd killed men for lesser offences.

He let his head fall toward her and waited until she huffed and turned to face him. He grinned. "Long day?" he asked lightly.

"Yeah," she said. "The boss was a real hardass today. Work, work, work." She sighed. "And all he did was stand there and look pretty."

Killian smirked. "I'll have you know, Swan, that being this _pretty_ , as you say, is terribly difficult."

"Huh. I would've thought you'd say it was effortless."

He blinked at her in shock for a split second before he laughed, the sound deep and warm. He grinned softly at her smug smirk, her bright green eyes dancing with amusement and an obvious glint of pride at her own wit. "You realize, darling," he began slowly, "that all this means only one thing."

She raised an eyebrow. "And what's that?"

"You fancy me."

"Of course, that's what you take from this."

"You think I'm pretty." He batted his eyelashes.

Emma struggled not to laugh. "I never said that, exactly."

"It was implied, and though I prefer to be called devilishly handsome, I will happily accept your praise."

He smiled when Emma finally cracked and laughed. "Never thought I'd hear one of those," he said. "You should laugh more often."

Emma's smile fell for a moment before twisting into something softer, almost bashful. Her eyes dropped from his as she curled onto her side, her arm falling over her chest like her heart needed protection. "I haven't had much to laugh at," she finally said, the words slipping from her lips stubbornly.

She wasn't feeling sorry for herself, and she didn't want his pity. The way her eyes met his in challenge conveyed that sentiment clearly. Killian merely smiled. "Well, you may laugh at me as often as you wish," he said.

She smirked. "That's a lot of laughter."

"I don't know whether to be insulted or flattered."

"Flattery will get you _no_ where."

"Ah, insulted it is, then."

Emma giggled, and Killian beamed with pride. He gently reached out and ran a finger over her cheek with a playful smile. She blushed prettily, just as he'd hoped, and seeing the smug look in his eye, Emma raised her fist and hit his chest. "Shut up," she muttered.

"I haven't said anything, Swan."

"You're thinking it."

"What am I thinking, then?"

"That I'm," her face twisted adorably, " _cute_."

"Is that such a despicable crime?"

"Yes."

He chuckled and Emma couldn't help but grin. She quite liked the sound of his laugh. She liked a few things about him . . . Well, perhaps more than a few.

But she wasn't going to take the time to list them. She wasn't that girl.

She did, however, take a moment to marvel at _this_. Them. It didn't really make sense to her, how she could lie in the same bed with a man so attractive without any fears of what might happen. Nothing was happening. She'd made that clear, yet here he was, here she was, and it wasn't awkward. God help her, it almost felt domestic. Practiced. Easy.

That part scared her, yet somehow she managed to ignore it in times like now, when everything was free and easy. They were just talking—okay, _flirting_ —but it wasn't serious. There weren't expectations. It was just . . . _them_.

And it felt right.

Emma had never experienced this kind of intimacy. It was the very first time she'd been in any sort of relationship that wasn't rooted in sex. Even her relationship with Neal had started with sex. She'd been young, and she'd romanticized the hell out of their whole relationship in a way that only a lonely sixteen-year-old girl can. It was fast and fun and daring. It was a _rush_. And in her most level-headed moments, Emma acknowledged that it had all been _real_. Young and stupid, but real. That's why it still hurt so much to think about.

But this? Killian? He was different. Everything about him, _them_ , was different.

Killian watched contently as her thoughts drifted. His lips twitched as her mouth dipped into a thoughtful frown while her brow puckered and her eyes stared at his chest contemplatively. He waited patiently—initially—wondering if she would eventually share what occupied her thoughts, yet as the minutes passed and that furrow in her brow continued to deepen, he grew restless.

Finally, he smoothed the crease in her brows with a gentle finger. "Alright, Swan," he said. "What are you thinking about?"

"You."

"Well, then," he smiled, pleased, "by all means, carry on."

Emma blushed, yet her smile was rueful and to Killian's eyes, slightly troubled. His smile faded somewhat as his eyes narrowed. He studied her for a moment, and Emma let him. His eyes always shocked her. She'd never seen bluer eyes.

"No, there's more to this," he declared quietly.

"I was thinking that you're different. This," she gestured awkwardly between them, "is different, and I think I figured out why." Killian raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly in encouragement. He wouldn't push her, and that was the reason Emma continued. "We're . . . friends." He frowned, and she growled quietly in frustration. "I mean, we're more than friends, I've told you that, I wouldn't be sleeping with you if you were just a friend." She winced again. "Even if we're not, I mean, _sleeping_ _together_."

Killian pressed his lips together in a valiant attempt not to smile. "Yes, I think we've established that, love," he said. "So . . . we're friends."

"Yeah. That's what makes you, _this_ , different."

"I don't follow."

"Every relationship I've ever been in started with sex," she said bluntly. "Even the one that," she swallowed, "the one that really meant something. We were never just . . . _friends_."

Her words caused Killian to remember a brief exchange with startling clarity.

" _He was a thief. I was a thief. He stabbed me in the back. I went to jail. End of story."_

" _You loved him."_

" _No."_

Killian reached out and linked his fingers with hers. He liked how their fingers fit together. Even more so, he liked the calluses he felt. She was a tough lass, his Swan. Yet in moments like these she was undeniably vulnerable, and the urge to protect her was nearly overwhelming.

"The one that really mattered," he began softly, "he's the one who broke your heart."

"Yes."

The answer was simple and clean. Killian raised their joined hands to his lips, placing a kiss on the back of her hand. "The man was a fool," he said simply.

Emma stared expectantly. "You're not gonna ask what happened?"

"I want to know everything about you, Emma," he admitted. "But only when you wish for me to know. Your past is your own."

Of course. Of course said that. He was Killian Jones and Killian Jones always, miraculously, managed to say what she needed to hear. Emma stared at him in complete bewilderment for a long moment before she said, her voice measured, "His name was Neal." She waited for Killian to say something, anything at all, but he only continued to patiently meet her gaze. Always so patient. "I stole his car," she said. "Only he was in it, and he'd stolen it first."

Killian smirked a little, and she found herself smiling slightly in return. "I was sixteen," she explained, slowly gathering momentum as she continued to speak. "I was on my own, stole what I needed to get by." His eyes gleamed and she just knew what he wanted to say: _pirate_. But he kept quiet and waited. She smiled knowingly for a second before she continued, "I just saw that car and wanted it. It was bright yellow and it just looked . . . happy. So I stole it, and then Neal pops up from the back. I was so surprised that I ran a stop sign, and a cop—a lawmen—pulled me over."

Killian raised an eyebrow. "What happened then?"

"Neal," she said simply. "He covered for me, called me his girlfriend, said he was teaching me how to drive stick, and we . . . drove away into the sunset. For a while, anyway."

"It was nice, you know?" Emma stared at their clasped hands lying innocently on the bed between them. "We just . . . did whatever we wanted, went wherever we wanted. All my life I'd been told what to do, and suddenly I was—"

"In control," he finished quietly, his thumb brushing against hers.

Her eyes flitted up to meet his, and she smiled slightly. "Yeah," she agreed. "Neal was there for my first real birthday. I mean, it came around every year, but this time it meant something to someone other than me. He bought us coffee and then broke into an amusement park. I hadn't had that much fun in . . . well, ever."

"But?"

"I got tired of it," she said simply. "Travelling all over the place, never staying too long, sneaking into motel rooms . . . I wanted something permanent, and I . . . I wanted it with Neal."

"Seems perfectly normal."

"He agreed," she said. "When I asked. He covered my eyes and told me to pick a spot on a map and that's where we'd go." Her next smile wavered. "It was Tallahassee."

Killian's chest tightened, but he nodded as he squeezed her hand. "You don't have to finish, love," he said.

But she shook her head. "No, I do." She closed her eyes and sighed. "It's funny, when I think about it now. Tallahassee is what got me into this whole mess. I wanted it so badly that I let it blind me. Turns out Neal was wanted for some watches that he'd stolen. The police were catching up to him, and he wanted to go to Canada. Alone."

Killian frowned, and Emma sighed again. "I didn't want one more person to abandon me," she admitted quietly. "I wanted him to stay, and so I said that I would get the watches for him. He'd stashed them in a locker at a train station. I got the watches without a problem, and when I met Neal where we'd planned, nothing seemed wrong. He even let me keep one of them, like a present." She closed her eyes. "I should have seen it coming."

"He made it appear as though you were the thief."

"He said he was going to fence them. Told me where to meet him. I showed up. He didn't." She smiled humorlessly. "But a cop did. I had the watch on me. And they had me on tape retrieving the watches from the station. I spent eleven months in jail."

"He didn't wait for you."

"No."

"But you waited for him."

Emma looked away. "It's stupid," she said. "I went to Tallahassee thinking that maybe he'd be there. He'd sent me this," she fished the necklace she wore out from her shirt, her thumb rubbing over the swan pendant, "it was on a keychain that he'd stolen for me. The keys to the Bug were with it. I thought it might mean he cared, like maybe it was some apology, but I waited for a year, and then another . . ." She shrugged. "He never showed."

Killian's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Yet you stayed," he said. "Why?"

"I didn't need him to be my happy ending. I made one without him."

"Tough lass," he said fondly.

They lapsed into silence. Exhaustion swept through Emma, the long day of work coupled with her trip down memory lane hitting her like a brick wall. She blinked heavily, unknowingly leaning into Killian's light touch like a cat when he gently brushed his hand over her head, his fingers sliding softly through her hair. Killian watched her with a small, smitten smile even as his eyes darkened.

Because Emma Swan was the first person he'd cared for in a very long time, and someone, this _Neal_ , had hurt her. He'd broken her heart, betrayed her, _abandoned_ her, and Killian desired nothing more in the moment than to hunt the man down—different realm and time, be damned—and make sure he understood just how tragic of an error he had made.

"Swan." Emma's tired eyes slowly met his, brightening when she saw how fiercely they burned. "For as long as you want me, you'll have me," he said softly, yet firmly. "I have no plans to leave you."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," she whispered.

He smiled. "I never do."

* * *

 **You can't deny that Killian is a man of his word.**

 **Oh, and _feels_.**

 **This story is about to jump into it's second stage now that Killian and Emma are on relatively steady ground. Now, as story-telling dictates, it's time to shake things up a bit. I'm so fucking excited, y'all. So excited. Shit is about to get real. And mythical.**

 **Chapter Preview! (Yes, I know, I've been skimping out lately). Let's see . . . Killian! - "It's bad form to board a man's ship without permission."**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Notes: Hellooooooooo! So happy to be back with a new chapter for you guys. This is where the adventure and plot-things start rolling, and I am so super duper psyched about it. I don't know many who have gone this route, but I'm taking a page out of the OUAT book and playing around with "what _really_ happened".**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. Or Disney. Which owns OUAT. So I don't own the thing that is owned by the thing which is . . . you get it.**

* * *

Chapter 11

It wasn't often that Killian dreamed, but when he did, it was never pleasant. Old wounds that had only festered with time came back to haunt him with biting clarity. His dreams were filled with memories of his father abandoning him, selling him into servitude. Violent flashes of his life as little more than a slave aboard Silver's ship made him jerk in his sleep as if he could still feel the tear of the whip against his back. Then there was Liam. Those dreams always started the same. Tauntingly happy. They would be children again or perhaps rising through the ranks in the Navy. Then the scene would change, and he'd be in this very same cabin, holding his dead brother in his arms and yelling for help that wouldn't come.

He startled awake, his eyes wide open yet his mind still hazy, filled with fading remnants of the crack of a whip and his father's voice. As his mind cleared, he quickly took stock of his surroundings, eyes flying around the room yet truly seeing very little. Floor, walls. Cabin. His hand fisted in the blankets. Bed. His chest heaved, and he swallowed to steady himself.

The moon was still bright in the night sky, sending soft, white light through the windows, and Killian rose silently from the bed. He glanced at Emma, grateful to see that he hadn't woken her. She was still curled on her side, her hand lying empty between them. He doubted that she'd so much as twitched since falling asleep.

Quietly, he opened a window and relished the breeze that whispered over his heated skin. His shirt was damp with sweat, sticking uncomfortably. Feeling trapped by the clinging material, he pulled the shirt over his head, sighing in relief at the immediate difference. He closed his eyes and carefully inhaled, finding comfort in the familiar salt air and the sound of the waves. Killian repeated the process a handful of times. Breathe in, breathe out.

 _He was fine. He had his ship. He was free. He was_ free _._

So preoccupied with his reassurances, he didn't realize Emma was awake until she placed a tentative hand on his back. He tensed at her touch, his heart racing and his gut twisting as her fingers trailed over the long, raised lines of his oldest scars. He tried to prepare himself for her reaction, whatever it might be, and yet of all the possibilities his mind conjured, Emma asked the one question he didn't expect.

Her fingers ran from his shoulder toward his spine. "Do they hurt?" she asked.

Killian let his head drop, an incredulous smile nearly twisting his lips as a heavy sigh escaped him. It almost managed to sound like a weak chuckle. "No," he said. "They haven't bothered me for some time."

Emma stared at the crisscrossing white lines on his back. They were old, smooth to the touch, and for the first time she wondered at Killian's age. She didn't think he was thirty, but perhaps he was close. "How old?" she asked quietly.

"I received my first ten lashes when I was fifteen."

"What did you do?"

"Got into the Captain's rum."

He turned slightly to look over his shoulder, a dark, wry smile on his lips that Emma faintly returned. "That does sound like you," she said.

He did manage to laugh then, a short huff of amusement. "Aye," he murmured.

Emma traced the scars yet again. "I thought you said you were in the Navy," she said.

"I wasn't always in the Navy."

His words hung heavily between them, and Emma sighed. "There's a lot that we don't know about each other," she said as her hand slipped from his back.

Killian smiled slightly. "Aye, love," he agreed. "But perhaps we've both done enough sharing for the night."

Emma nodded and as silence fell between them, she became abruptly aware of his shirtless state. Her hand acted without her consent. She placed her hand on his chest, meaning her touch to be comforting, yet the way her fingers brushed lightly against his chest hair betrayed her. Killian's eyes immediately flashed to her, and though she felt his gaze, she didn't look away from her exploration. She trailed her hand to his side, brushing gently over his wound that she'd stitched. He shivered. She brushed the healing wound again.

Killian grabbed her wrist. "Emma," he warned.

"I know," she said, though she made no attempt to withdraw her hand. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to . . . I just want to make you feel better."

Killian smiled as he lifted her hand from his side and kissed her knuckles. It was such an old-fashioned thing to do, the stuff of Jane Austen novels, and Emma found each sweet kiss just as odd as the first time he'd taken her hand in that crowded tavern in Queen's Port. But she liked it. The gesture was old and fancy and it was _her_ hand he seemed so fond of kissing.

"You already are, darling," he assured her softly. "More than you know."

He slowly leaned in, giving her time to pull away if she wanted, causing Emma to huff impatiently before she surged up to meet him. She felt him smile against her lips and a feeling of power flooded her body. Maybe she _did_ make him feel better. Her hands wandered over his shoulders and across his chest as he deepened the kiss. Emma let out a muffled moan of appreciation. Her nails dug lightly into his skin. His hand in her hair tightened as he nipped at her bottom lip.

Emma pulled away first, although she hardly went far. Her forehead rested lightly against his as her hand slid from his hair to caress his jawline. Killian kept his eyes closed as they both caught their breath, and only when she felt the gentle brush of his thumb against her back did Emma realize that he had slipped his hand beneath her shirt.

He brushed lightly at her skin. "You should try to sleep," he said eventually, his voice rougher than usual. "There's still a few hours before dawn."

Emma knew better than to ask him to do the same. She ran her fingers along his jaw, relishing the scratch of his scruff and the way his eyes seemed to close of their own accord. The effect she had on him was an intoxicating thrill, and when he ran his hand around to the curve of her hip, lightly stroking her stomach, she was vividly reminded that that same thrill was a two-way street.

She'd never been so attracted to anyone in her life.

"Dangerous waters, Swan," he warned before his hands left her completely and he took a step back. "You try to rest. I'll be at the helm."

Emma watched him quickly climb the stairs and disappear above deck. She turned back to the window, closing her eyes against the cool breeze and inhaling deeply. The air calmed her. The subtle roll of the ship soothed her overheated nerves. She knew that the wise decision would be to try to sleep as Killian had suggested. Her limbs still felt weak from the previous day's work, but she knew she would not be sleeping at all.

So she lit a candle and sat at Killian's desk with one of his books until the sun peaked over the horizon. The deck was clear as she went to the galley for breakfast, where she found the majority of the crew with bowls of some sort of porridge. She received murmured greetings and a handful of smiles that she returned with a wave as she walked to the back where Wallace stood near what passed as a stove in the Enchanted Forest—a carefully contained open flame.

"'Ello, love," he greeted brightly. "Same as usual, then?"

She smiled. "Am I that predictable?"

"Makes me life a bit simpler. I don't mind none." He tossed his head toward the barrel of fruit. "I already found a good one. Wouldn't let any of the boys touch it."

Emma snatched up the apple sitting on top of the barrel. "Thanks Wally." She took a big bite, gave him a smile, and slid onto the bench next to Vincent with a sigh, letting her head rest against the ship as she briefly closed her eyes.

"Long night, Emma?"

She cracked open an eye at Vincent's question. "Something like that," she said, which garnered a few snickers and whistles. Beside her, Vincent chortled and she flung her hand out to hit him solidly in the chest. She leveled a glare at the crew. "No one's won anything yet," she said plainly. When that only got her more teasing, she huffed and stood. "Don't you have work to do?"

She marched out of the galley onto the deck, a somewhat pleased smile on her face as she heard the crew grumble yet nonetheless follow after her. Munching on her apple, Emma made her way up to the helm, deciding to forego her usual trip to the crow's nest in favor of spending a few moments with Killian.

She pointedly ignored the low whistle behind her. _Vincent_. They'd be having a talk later.

Killian shot her a quick smirk and raised that damning eyebrow of his as she climbed the stairs. "Morning, love," he greeted. "Did you manage to sleep?"

She smirked back. "Nope," she said as she sashayed over to him. "Too worked up."

Killian groaned quietly, and she laughed when he hung his head. "Bloody hell, Swan," he muttered. "You'll be the death of me."

"I'm guessing the fresh air didn't help you."

"Not as much as I'd hoped, no," he admitted ruefully. "The blame rests entirely with you, of course. Bloody siren, you are." Emma blushed lightly even as she rolled her eyes. He nodded toward the crew. "The crew seem to be in high spirits this morning."

Emma scowled, and he cocked an eyebrow. "Don't ask," she muttered.

Killian chuckled. "Is it about the wager?" She stared at him with wide, dismayed eyes and a blush that disappeared below the neckline of her shirt. He smirked. "A good Captain knows all the happenings on his ship, Swan. I told you that."

She sputtered. "You _knew_? For how long?" she demanded.

"Oh, it started up the first night you were here, love. It's bad luck to bring a woman aboard," he informed her lightly. "The men had to wonder why I'd risk it."

"Bad luck, my ass," Emma snipped, leveling an exasperated look at him when he glanced at her ass teasingly.

He shrugged, unrepentant. "You're the one who said it, darling. Now, I only have one question for you," he said before leaning toward her with a lascivious smile. "Just how much did you bet on us?"

Emma watched his tongue sweep across his bottom lip. Damn this man, she thought as she leaned forward, careful to keep her voice low and seemingly unaffected. "I made a deal with Vincent," she said. "We split the winnings fifty-fifty."

"Did you now?" His voice rose in delight. "Just how did you manage such an accord?"

"Well, I'd be doing all the work—"

"I assure you, darling," he interrupted, as he leaned even closer, his nose brushing hers, "that will not be the case."

Emma smiled despite the way her hand clutched a spoke of the wheel as she fought the urge to run. "You promise?" she teased.

He kissed her in answer, his lips hot and demanding and _promising_. Emma let out a shaky breath when he pulled away, her fists unclenching from the lapels of his coat. "Yeah," she breathed. "I'm gonna go . . . um, rig a sail or something."

Emma, to her relief, only had to endure a few minutes of teasing from the crew once she took her place near Bee. It was all "You look a bit flushed, m'lady" and "Going to be a long day eh, lass?" and "Be gentle with her, lads. She's got another long night ahead!" That last one had come from Vincent, and she'd carefully placed her foot in his path and laughed with the rest of the crew when he flailed wildly before busting his ass.

The day passed like any other. Despite the weariness in her bones, Emma felt at ease working the deck with men she'd begun to admit were friends. She had _friends_. She'd never been good at making friends. She'd switched foster homes just as often as the other children who could have been her friends, and Lily . . . well, that had been a friendship that had given her hope and snatched it away in the same breath.

But now, on a pirate ship of all places, she legitimately had friends. Vincent and Bee, mainly. She had a soft spot for grumpy old Ace and Wallace's happy-go-lucky attitude in the galley reminded her far more of a free-spirited boy than a pirate.

Then there was Killian, and dare she even think it, but if she had to choose, she'd say that he might even be her _best_ friend.

She'd never had a best friend before.

"So, it'll be a pirate's life for you then, lass?"

Emma glanced at Vincent with a slight smile. "What?"

He leaned against the rail and looked pointedly at the sails above them. "This," he said. "Sailing the seas, adventure, a bit of treasure," he winked, "you're made for it, my fair friend."

"I don't know about that," she said even as she stared at the rolling waves, smiling when a herd of whales breached the surface. "It's . . . insane. My life before this wasn't . . . it was safe. Boring, compared to this."

"Sometimes boring is best."

Emma smiled ruefully. "It's certainly easier. All this is like nothing I've ever known. I've spent so many years alone, and I liked it that way. Now I'm stuck on a ship with twenty men and it feels . . ."

"Right?" Vincent offered with a quiet smile, and she shook her head wryly.

"It doesn't make much sense, does it?"

"Well, lass. I think that sometimes that can be best, too."

"Why?"

"Keeps life interesting." He glanced toward the quarterdeck were Killian stood at the helm. "You know," he began warmly, "we pirates just like to tease. Truthfully, none of us has seen the Captain in such high spirits in years. Keep him happy, would you?"

Emma scoffed. "That's not my job."

"Aye, but you do it so well." Vincent playfully bumped her shoulder. "But, just so you know, if he ever hurts you, you've got a crew willing to mutiny in your favor."

Her first instinct was to laugh, and she did. But Vincent just gave her a little smile as her laughter died and met her gaze steadily when her eyes narrowed. He wasn't actually serious, was he? "Speak for yourself, sailor," she finally said before pushing away from the rail. "C'mon, there's work to do."

"There's always work to do."

"Don't get smart with me."

"Does the Captain let you get away with such sass?"

"Shut up, Vincent."

"You're a wee bit snippy when you don't sleep."

"I slept."

"Not enough, apparently."

Emma wanted to scowl at the way Vincent simply smirked at her with his usual boyish charm. "You annoy me," she said.

His smirk brightened. "Hopefully our dear Captain will allow you your rest tonight. I can't imagine the state we'll find you in tomorrow otherwise."

"Vincent!"

No one asked any questions as she chased him around the main mast with a dagger in hand.

* * *

The day came to an end slowly. Emma stood next to Ace at the bow, both content to watch the Jolly cut through the waves. A large bucket of fish sat at their feet. She had caught three fish worth keeping by herself, a feat that had actually garnered a begrudging smile from the salty old pirate. They'd agreed silently to a sort of race, and though she'd only caught three fish to his ten, it was a considerable improvement compared to yesterday.

Ace was a grizzled man with a scratchy lip and a bad eye. He compensated for it by constantly moving his head like a radar, right to left and back, like he was constantly scanning for data. So Emma wasn't surprised when he noticed the change first. "What the buggering hell is that?" he muttered to her left.

She turned to follow his gaze, her eyes narrowed. "I don't see anything."

"It's there," he assured her, his voice like gravel with a perpetual slur that made him sound drunk whether he was or not. "Right yonder." He pointed with his finger. "Comin' fast." His one good eye flashed. "Against the wind," he added.

Just then Killian's voice carried across the deck. "Get the guns ready, mates! We've got company!"

Emma looked up at the helm in time to see Killian pocket his spyglass before gripping the wheel and bringing the ship around. He barked more orders, his voice sharp and commanding, reminding her that the man who planted sweet kisses on her knuckles was every bit a pirate captain. She dodged the crew scrambling on deck as she quickly made her way to the helm. Killian didn't glance at her, even as he said, his voice tight, "I don't suppose there's a point in asking you to go below."

She shook her head. "Nope."

Her words were met with a harsh clap of thunder. The sky darkened instantly, as if someone had flipped a switch, and a thick fog suddenly swept across the deck of the _Jolly Roger_. The ocean roared, reminding Emma of a whale breaching the surface, and then there was a giant crash of water. The _Jolly_ rolled violently, and when a pair of hands grabbed her, she initially thought it was Killian, until the hands dug sharply into her skin like bony claws.

The smell of rotten fish nearly made her gag. Her eyes strained to see anything through the fog but it was useless. She almost convinced herself that she was actually blind. Hearing helped ground her. The groan of the ship. Scuffling around her. Curses. The slide of a sword in its sheath.

The fog cleared like magic, and it took Emma a second to process the flood of images assaulting her brain. It took another second for her to actually believe what she was seeing.

Because it _looked_ like she and the crew were held captive by skeleton fish people.

She looked down, as much as she could with the knife at her throat, and swallowed back bile when she confirmed that yes, the arm around her waist was pale, slimy _bone_. Her eyes then frantically scanned the deck. She locked eyes with Vincent first. He was closest to her, his hands loosely at his sides due to the dagger point digging into his kidney. A dagger that was held by what seemed to be a very human-like hammerhead shark. Vincent gave her a very firm look with an obvious meaning.

 _Don't do anything stupid, lass._

Killian was the only one left alone. He stood in the middle of the chaos with his sword leveled dangerously under the chin of the only man who didn't look like a fish. He was a tall, disturbingly handsome man with a neatly trimmed dark goatee who carried with him an air of casual menace, as if he would as soon laugh at you as he would run you through, or perhaps laugh as he ran you through. His hair was equally dark and curly, tied neatly in a low ponytail at the base of his neck, and he wore a loose green shirt, buttoned low enough to show off a vicious, mottled scar above his heart.

Yet what stunned Emma into complete stillness were his eyes. They were a gut-wrenchingly familiar, piercing shade of blue.

 _What the hell was going on?_

"It's bad form to board a man's ship without permission," Killian said, his voice calm yet brooking no argument.

The man smiled with little concern, despite the sword point tickling his throat. "I thought I would save us all the time," he said.

Killian's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

"A word."

"Who are you?"

"Family."

Killian stiffened and pressed the point of his sword deeper to the man's throat. It should have drawn blood. "Try again, mate."

"The name's Jones," the man said. "Davy Jones."

Emma saw Killian falter. His sword arm didn't drop in the slightest, but she saw his shoulders tense and for a split second he was too still. Davy Jones capitalized on the small window of opportunity, drawing his sword in a move too quick to see and knocking Killian's blade from his throat.

"Now," Jones grinned like a shark, "shall we talk?"

* * *

 **Boom.**

 **I went there.**

 **Chapter 12 Preview: "So you've always had a fondness for pirates, then?" - Killian**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Notes: Hello, hello! Thanks for being patient. This update is coming a bit later in the day that usual, but I've been stuck (I say that lovingly) at my grandmother's house, and she refuses to pay for Internet when her desktop comes with solitaire. What more does a granny need? I love her so much.**

 **Anyhoo, I finally found time to sneak to Starbucks. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, alerted, and favorited. We're slowly getting more and more readers, and I am stoked, people. You're fucking awesome. All of you. Kisses.**

 **So let's clear up this Davy Jones thing, right? Things are gonna get crazy!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. Or POTC. Disney, leave me alone.**

* * *

Chapter 12

Davy Jones.

Bloody fucking hell.

Killian took a step back now that Jones also had a blade, and as they began to circle each other, he searched the other man's face for proof that they were related. He dismissed the shared dark hair, the shared build. That was trivial. Yet he couldn't dismiss the man's eyes. Startlingly blue. Familiar.

His mother's eyes.

Killian swallowed. "If you want to talk, then we can talk," he said before chancing a glance at his captive crew. His gaze lingered on Emma, something that did not go unnoticed by anyone aboard. "But let my crew go."

"I'll do you one better," Jones offered graciously. "I'll let her highness go."

He glanced at the man holding Emma and a second later the knife at her throat was gone. She cautiously took a step forward but did not make a move closer to Killian like she thought was expected of her. She wasn't that girl. Instead, she lifted her chin and pinned Davy Jones of the infamous Davy Jones' Locker with an unimpressed glare. "For someone who says he wants to talk, you're not doing much talking," she said.

Killian didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or scream. Jones had no qualms. He threw his head back and laughed. "Oh, I like her," he said to Killian, as if giving his approval. "She's a real siren, isn't she?"

"Swan has a point," he said. "What do you want?"

"Well, it's family business. So, perhaps we could sojourn to your quarters?"

Killian glanced at the crew. "I want your word that my crew will remained unharmed," he said.

"Of course. I'm a gentleman." Jones waved Emma politely toward the hatch leading to the Captain's quarters. "After you, Princess."

Part of her wanted instantly to object. If this was family business, why was she being invited along? When her eyes met Killian's, his gaze was forceful, yet pleading as he gave a small nod of encouragement. _Go along with it, Swan. Please._

And so despite the fact that it went against every instinct she had, Emma turned her back on the skeleton fish crew and Davy Jones himself, and started down the stairs. Hearing footsteps behind her, but having no idea whose, she hurried to the bottom and a low chuckle followed after her.

Guess that answered that.

Davy Jones descended the stairs after her and stepped into the room as if it belonged to him. He offered her a courteous smile as he passed her to sit at Killian's desk, propping his feet up on the edge in a carefree way that grated on her nerves. She glared at him, refusing to take her eyes off of him, even when she felt Killian's hand stroke her spine from her shoulders to the small of her back as he came to stand directly in front of his own desk.

"I have a small favor to ask of you, son," Jones began.

Killian growled. "I am not your _son_ ," he spit.

"Grandson, then. And for the record," he held up a defensive finger, "I disapproved of your mother's marriage to that bastard from the start, but Katarina was a stubborn lass." Though his glare never faltered, a shade of confusion shone in Killian's eyes that Jones explained away with an absent wave of his hand, "Your father took your mother's name after her death to hide from his debts."

Killian ignored the new information. "What do you want from me, Jones?"

"My heart. I require you to retrieve it. Alas, I would do it myself, but there's this small little detail in my curse that prevents me from stepping foot on land but once every ten years."

"Our luck it's not today, huh?" Emma said dryly.

Jones smiled without humor. "Indeed, Princess."

She scoffed. "I'm no princess."

"Perhaps not yet, but time has a funny way of, well, you'll see eventually, I suppose." At Emma's wide eyes he grinned widely. "Oh, yes. I know you're not from this time," he said smugly. "See, I know when every sailor will meet his or her end. It's something of a talent that comes with the job. And you, love, you're a bit of a mess." His eyes trailed over to Killian. "As are you, Captain."

Killian took a step forward. "So, I'm to retrieve your heart? Are you sure you can trust me with such a treasure?" he challenged, anxious to remove Jones's attention from Emma. "After all, the one who crushes the heart of Davy Jones not only becomes immortal, but also gains the fastest ship in the land."

"Very true," Jones conceded, his smile twisting into something dark. With a flick of his wrist, a dagger materialized in front of Emma's chest. Killian lunged to grab it but suddenly found himself unable to move. Jones paid him no attention, his gaze fixed on Emma. "But, you see, in order to gain possession of the _Dutchman_ , one has to cut out their own heart." The dagger pressed further into Emma's chest before slowly dragging downward, slicing through a button of her shirt. "And that's, well, it's quite the painful process." Another button popped, the tip of the blade now pressing between her breasts. "If you betray me, I'll carve out her heart myself, and I'll assure that you will be forced to watch every agonizing second."

A small bead of blood swelled around the dagger's point.

"That's enough," Killian snapped. "I'll get your damn heart. Now, drop the bloody knife before I find a way to shove it down your throat."

Jones smiled with the sort of fond exasperation of a parent dealing with a headstrong child. "Now, there's no need for threats," he said as the knife clattered to the floor. The force holding both Emma and Killian in place vanished but neither moved. "I think we're getting along swimmingly," Jones continued. "A few things before I go." He swung his legs off the desk and stood. "There is a race of sorts in regards to claiming my heart. Many men will chase its power. You'll need an advantage."

"The _Jolly Roger_ is fast enough," Killian said evenly.

"Indeed," Jones agrees, "yet it does do well to know where one is going. A good compass is what you need."

"Well, you're in luck. I've got one."

"This compass is . . . special," he said. "It does not point north, and it is in the possession of a man I believe will be willing to help you." Jones rounded the desk to stand at Killian's shoulder. "Find the compass, find my heart, and then return it to me."

"So be it," Killian agreed through gritted teeth. "Who, pray tell, possesses this magic compass?"

"Jack Sparrow."

Emma gasped quietly in recognition, yet the sound went unnoticed by the two Jones Captains, who met each other's gazes evenly. "Find the compass, find my heart," Jones repeated. "There are many wheels in motion, things that must come to pass, if we wish for the sea to remain free."

"Aye." Killian's eyes narrowed. "Now, _get off my ship_."

Jones flashed a quick, dangerous smile before dissolving into a sea green mist. Killian paused only long enough to be sure that the pirate of the dead was gone before taking two quick steps toward Emma. Framing her face in his hands, he captured her lips in a fierce kiss, his mouth hot and demanding against hers. She clutched his shoulders and gave as good as she got, making a noise of complaint when Killian pulled away sooner than she liked.

His eyes scanned her face as his hands stroked her cheeks and her hair, his gaze trailing down between her breasts to glare at the drip of dried blood before meeting her eyes. "Are you alright, Emma?"

Her next breath was a bit shakier than she liked, but she managed a smile. "I'm fine," she said. "It was just a prick. It's nothing."

"He hurt you."

He said it like it was the gravest offense, like of the whole ordeal _that_ was what mattered the most. Emma's heart fluttered. "I'm fine," she repeated before her eyes fell on the open hatch leading on deck. "You better check on the crew."

"Aye," Killian agreed. "Perhaps it would be best if you were to stay here. I think we'll drop anchor for the night."

She nodded. "Yeah, I'll," she glanced at her shirt, showing much more than just a spot of blood, "fix this."

Emma wasn't sure whether she was impressed or offended when Killian managed to avoid glancing at her breasts a final time before he turned and climbed the stairs to the deck two at a time. As soon as he was gone, Emma took in the captain's quarters with fresh eyes, surprised by the strange sense of loneliness she felt. It was almost as if she was seeing it again for the first time, feeling out of place and lost, unsure of her decision to stay.

Emma realized with a pang of panic that it was because the _Jolly Roger_ had become a home to her. These quarters were _hers_. This was her room. She had her clothes in the wardrobe, her few belongings in the trunk at the foot of the bed. The journal that she'd started to while away the hours after sunset was sitting on one of the bookshelves.

This place was supposed to be safe.

And Davy fucking Jones had ruined that.

She irrationally wanted him to come back just so she could punch him in the nose, because she'd never really had a home and this was as close as she'd ever gotten to one and _no one just got to waltz in dammit._

Her anger had yet to fade by the time she had shed her vest and shirt, and without any other options, stolen one of Killian's shirts as a replacement. Killian returned just as she was fishing through his coat pocket for his flask.

"Brilliant idea, Swan."

She took a sip and wordlessly passed it to him. "It felt necessary," she said.

"Aye," he agreed before taking a drink. His gaze fell on her with only a hint of his usual heat. "I approve of your wardrobe change, love."

Her teasing smile fell flat. "What is it about men seeing women wearing their clothes?"

Killian smiled faintly as he took a step toward. "Are you sure you're alright?" he asked, his eyes once again boring into hers.

"I'm fine, Killian," she assured him, touched by his concern. "How's the crew?"

"Unharmed. It seems Davy Jones kept his word."

"Yeah, about that," Emma took the flask back from him and took a drink, "so I need to tell you something. This guy that we have to find—"

"Sparrow."

"Yeah," she took another drink, "I sort of know him."

* * *

Emma liked to think that she had made some strides in the belief department. She accepted that the Enchanted Forest was a real place (Renaissance Fair that it was). She accepted that magic was real. She accepted that some legends in her world were real here. Like Neverland.

Yet when she stepped off the gangplank onto the docks of Tortuga, she found the strength of her belief tested.

The whole damn port was straight out of the movie—crowded, loud, and crass. Gunshots went off like fireworks. Everyone seemed to be shouting at someone. Whores in brightly colored dresses and thick makeup paraded by, winking and smiling slyly. Bottles were smashed over heads. Swords were drawn.

And everyone was drunk.

Killian kept her close as they wove through the crowd, his hand a firm warmth on her waist. "Is it the same as your movie, Swan?" he asked.

Emma dodged another drunk, a disbelieving laugh on her lips. "Exactly the same," she said.

"Perhaps we have a distinct advantage, then. You're practically a Seer, love."

She snorted and rolled her eyes. The crowd thinned just enough for her to see a long row of taverns. "There," she pointed. "This way."

"You must have liked this movie of yours, for you to remember such details."

"It was a good movie."

"So you've always had a fondness for pirates, then? Or is it just me?"

Emma ignored him. Killian took it as a _yes_ , and his answering smirk was smug as they continued down the narrow alleyway. A weathered wooden sign swayed in the breeze, grabbing Emma's eye. _The Salty Dog_. "This one," she said, pointing. "It's where they went in the movie. C'mon."

She grabbed his hand and led them forward. Killian eyed their hands with a small smile as he followed her into the tavern, where they had to immediately throw themselves to the side as two drunk brawlers tumbled out the door. Killian glanced at Emma to see if she was alright, and was only somewhat unsurprised to see the smile on her face. Bloody brilliant little pirate she was, his Swan.

The tavern was rough and loud. A different fight broke out every other second. The sound of flesh hitting flesh and the crash of glass created an unusual, lively music. He searched for a table, finding one near the back that had a good view of the door. Emma followed his gaze and headed for the table without a word.

She sat in her chair though her eyes never ceased their movement. Excitement caused her to tap her foot beneath the table as she scoured the tavern. God, she was really doing this, wasn't she? She was looking for Johnny Depp's doppelganger in the real Tortuga.

The thought made her snicker under her breath. It was partially nerves, partially disbelief, and a hell of a lot of complete bewilderment. Killian lifted his eyebrow in a way that only he could, teasing and amused and sinful all at once, and she blushed as he said, "You're loving this."

"Nothing about this makes sense," she said. "This is _real_."

"I thought we were past that real or not real nonsense."

Emma rolled her eyes. "This is serious, though," she said, trying to explain. "This isn't . . . this isn't about me believing that I fell through a portal or that you've been to Neverland. This is _you_ believing _me_."

Killian frowned. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"No, it's not that," she said honestly, the quick answer making her blush and him smile. "But as wonderful as you've been helping me adjust to this world, I'm still a girl from the Land Without Magic. And even if I'm looking for a freaking character in a movie, it's . . . it's the most familiar thing I've done since I've been here."

Her voice was soft, almost bashful when she finished, and Killian studied her quietly, eventually dropping his gaze from hers to twist his glass of rum. "Do you still wish to return to your world, Swan? Because if you do, I will still do all in my power to help."

Emma blinked. "You'd do that? Even after—"

"Aye."

"Do you want me to go back?"

"No," he said softly. "I'll always want you to stay, Emma."

Her mind swam. She tried to process the thoughts drowning in her head, but all she managed to do was hear _always_ and _you_ and _stay_. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but a flash of oddly familiar movement out of the corner of her eye distracted her. "He's here," she said.

Killian turned. "Where?"

"Dark hair. Hat. Beads in his hair."

"I see him."

Jack Sparrow wasn't exactly like Disney had led her to believe. While he still held a specific swagger, that sort of well-placed confidence that was nearly lazy, he wasn't as . . . _weird_ in real life. There was no swaying walk, no pointy, wavy hands as he talked to a few men at the bar. He wore a weathered, brown leather coat and beneath that, a white shirt that looked fairly new since it still looked more white than beige. His brown vest was unbuttoned, and his sword and pistol were tucked into his belt.

Emma glanced at Killian. "Do you know anything about him?"

"I know the name," he said. "And I know the legends of the _Black Pearl_ , but I've seen neither man nor ship."

Emma watched Jack take a tankard of ale from the bar and find a table in the quieter corner of the tavern. "Okay," she said, propping her arms on the table and leaning forward. "So how do you want to handle this?"

Killian responded by tossing back the rest of his rum before grabbing the bottle as he stood. "I'm going to offer the man a drink," he said simply.

Emma snatched their glasses and followed him over to Jack's table. The pirate captain saw them coming. His dark eyes narrowed even as he adopted a smile. "I don't believe we've met," he said as Killian and Emma sat across from him. His eyes trailed to Emma. "I never forget a face."

"Captain Killian Jones," Killian said as he refilled his and Emma's glasses.

"My keen sense of intuition tells me that you already know who I am," Jack responded with an appraising tilt of his head as his eyes slid to Emma once again. "And who are you, lass?"

"Emma Swan."

"Now, that is interesting. Curious name, Swan."

Emma was surprised when the sound of her name from his lips irked her. "Only he gets to call me that," she said, glancing at Killian who felt a rush of blinding satisfaction at her declaration.

"Apologies," Jack said with a light smile. "I was merely commenting on the name itself, love. Names, I find, are quite telling." He looked at Killian. "It leaves me wondering why the grandson of Davy Jones is buying me a drink."

Killian's eyes narrowed. "How do you know that?"

"You look just like him, mate. Lovely eyes, the pair of you. Yet judging by that scowl of yours, I gather that it's not exactly a point of family pride."

"I'd tread carefully, _mate_."

"My apologies," Jack returned with a fake smile before holding up his tankard. "Cheers."

Emma leaned forward. "Look, we need your help."

"Ah, if only I was inclined to give it."

"What do you know about the heart of Davy Jones?"

For the first time since the beginning of the conversation, Jack gave them his full attention. He stilled, and a million different thoughts flew behind his eyes. "Now, that changes things," he said lowly. "What do you want with that repugnant crustacean's heart?"

"We want to find it."

Jack's eyes flitted to Killian with a new, appraising light. "Wanting to take over the family business, eh?"

"My reasons are my own," Killian said flatly.

"Fair enough." Jack turned back to Emma, seeming more inclined to talk to her, although there was something lurking behind his eyes that she didn't understand. It was almost as though he was searching for something. "The first thing you need to know is the story of how he lost it in the first place."

"He carved it out."

"Aye, but why would a man do that?" Emma raised her eyebrows and Jack leaned forward. "Love, lass. Drives a man mad, it does. Makes him do things he'd never do."

"Like carve out his heart."

"See, good old Davy Jones was just a measly, pilfering pirate like the rest of us once upon a time," Jack explained. "Loved the sea. Loved the freedom. Wanted nothing more than to sail the seas for all time. Until one day he meets Calypso herself, and they fall in love. She promises to make him immortal so he can sail the seas for eternity, only she needs one thing."

"His heart."

"Proof of his devotion, lass. And so being the idiot in love that he is, Jones carves out his own heart and gives it to her. They bury it on an uncharted island, where Calypso promises to wait for him. Only when ten years pass, and once again he's allowed on land, she's not there." Emma frowned and Jack smiled grimly. "But he kept coming back, you see," he revealed. "For centuries he returned once every ten years until one day he decided his heart would be his own once again. Only when he went to take it, he found the chest in which it was kept locked. The key wouldn't turn."

"Why?"

Jack suddenly shrugged. "No idea," he said. "Just a story, love."

Killian cleared his throat sharply. "Where's the key?"

"Even if I did know where the key was, which is by no means a subtle way of implying that I do," he leaned back in his chair, " . . . but if I _were_ to know where said key was . . . why would I share its location with you?"

"We are not the only ones who seek the heart."

"Well, the lot of you will have a hell of a time finding it."

"Not if we have a good compass."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Just what are you proposing, Captain?"

"You have a compass that can lead us to the heart," Killian said, his voice low and filled with an undercurrent of danger. His eyes were a threatening blue as he glared at Jack. "And even if you don't have the key, which I doubt, you at the very least know where it is."

"I'm still not hearing a reason why we should be friends, mate."

"Because we have a ship," Emma said. "You don't."

"And what makes you think that, lass?"

"You're here instead of hunting down the heart," she said simply. "If you had the _Pearl_ , you would've already taken the heart for yourself."

"Very well deduced, Miss Swan."

"So, will you help us or not?"

Jack held up a finger. "One question," he said. "Just what is it you plan to do with the heart if young Jonesy here doesn't want to carry on the family business?"

"Return it to Davy Jones."

"You plan to go to the locker, then?"

Killian nodded. "Aye."

Silence fell over the table even as Emma watched a man get a chair smashed over his back before tackling his attacker to the ground. Her gaze settled on Jack, whose kohl-lined eyes moved slowly between her and Killian. She studied him with interest, taking in the differences between the character and the man. There was something different about him, the real Jack. Something more genuine.

The character that she knew was a man out for himself, an honorable, yet dishonest man, and she saw every bit of that calculating, cunning mind flashing in Jack's eyes. He was still every bit as clever. That hadn't changed. But his eyes flashed with something else as he continued to look between her and Killian.

It looked like jealousy to an untrained eye, but Emma wasn't a novice. She knew the look for what it was—longing. Even a hint of grief.

She knew then that Jack would join them.

So when he held out a hand to Killian, she wasn't surprised. "Then we have an accord," he said.

He and Killian shook hands, and Emma poured the rum.

* * *

 **Oh, yes. We have the ultimate Captain team-up. Can you imagine the trouble Killian and Jack can find together? Of course, that's if they get along. We'll have to see.**

 **Prepare yourselves for an adventure!**

 **Quote from next chapter comes from . . . Jack! - "We'll both just have to deal with our mutual dislike of the other, savvy?"**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	13. Part 2: The Locker

**Author's Notes: So here we are! I'm so excited about the next part of the story. Totally forgot that I had named this section, so this story actually as four parts. I'm sure you guys won't be complaining.**

 **Thank you, thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, and alerted this story. As always, you guys are fucking amazing and I love you to bits.**

 **Now, let's see how are two favorite captains get along, shall we? ( _Sooooo much fun writing these two_ )**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. Or Pirates. Or Disney. Nothing. I own nothing.**

* * *

Part Two: Davy Jones' Locker

Chapter 13

Sharing a bed was by no means something that Emma was used to, yet when she woke to find Killian missing, she realized that if anything, she'd quickly grown attached to the extra warmth. She shivered as she sat up in bed, the blankets falling to her waist as her hand reached out to feel the sheets that held no trace of heat. Emma was slipping out of bed in the next second.

She found him where she expected. He leaned against the rail of the quarterdeck, his eyes on water. They stood there quietly for a moment. Emma stared at the waves, the silvery moonlight shimmering over the surface like glass. It made the ocean appear fragile, and in response she felt the undeniable need to be quiet, to settle, so that she might not break it.

"I've always found it calming," Killian said, keeping his voice low as if someone might hear and use the information against him. "There's nothing more beautiful than moonlight on the waves." He glanced at her with an apologetic smile. "Forgive me if I woke you."

"You didn't." _The empty bed did_.

She kept her voice firm, feeling the need to emphasize that she still had every ability to sleep on her own, thank you very much, but Killian's lips twitched anyway, and she scoffed softly at the fond look in his eyes. "What's on your mind?" she asked.

Killian laughed tiredly as he ran a hand over his face. "Many things, Swan," he said. "A great many things."

He took a drink from his flask. Emma raised her eyebrows. "Is rum your solution to everything?" she asked dryly.

"It certainly doesn't hurt." He took another drink before offering the flask to her, and despite throwing him a sharp look, she took a drink herself. Killian smiled slightly as she passed back the flask, her lips still pursed against the burn of the rum. "Go back to bed, love," he said.

Emma shook her head. "Nope," she said as she turned to face him, resting her hip against the rail. "You're not distracting me."

Killian's eyebrows rose in challenge as he took the smallest step closer to her, and Emma suddenly felt the heat that she'd missed. He bent toward her, his nose brushing hers as his hand settled on her hip. "Don't be so sure, Swan," he said. "I love a challenge."

And though her blood boiled in the most pleasant way, especially when his hand on her hip drifted teasingly up her ribs, stopping just shy of where she wanted him, Emma pulled away just enough to look him in the eye. Her hand cupped his face. "Killian."

Her voice was soft, coaxing, yet uncannily firm. Killian sighed deeply and closed his eyes. His hand on her ribs fell away to grasp her hand on his cheek. He kissed her hand absently, like it had already become a habit, before turning away from her to stare at the ocean.

If their hands hadn't rested between them on the rail, Emma would have worried that Killian was pulling away from her, that he didn't trust her with his secrets. It wouldn't have been right for her to think so even if it was true. She knew as well as anyone that some truths were better kept close, that it was safer that way. She understood that desire to want distance.

But Killian kept her close, kept her hand in his, and so Emma waited. Minutes passed. Perhaps even hours. They stood together and watched the moonlight play over the water. The air occasionally stirred and swept up Emma's hair, adding a hint of vanilla in the breeze that reminded Killian of her first trip to Port Royal when he'd practically blackmailed her into letting him buy her some nice soaps.

Stubborn, infuriating woman.

He squeezed her hand.

"You asked once who had left me," he finally said, his voice heavy with remembered pain. "It was my father." Part of him wanted to chance a glance at Emma to see her reaction, if her eyes widened with surprise or her lips tipped into a frown. Yet the larger part feared that he would see pity, and so he kept his gaze forward as he continued, "After my mother died, we left the small town I'd barely begun to know as home. My father took us from town to town. I hated it. Not the travelling. No, I was actually quite fond of it. Liam made it seem as though we were heroes on an adventure." He smiled, though a cynical huff left his lips as he said, "Yet even that young I knew in my heart that it was a lie. It didn't feel like an adventure. It felt like running."

"What Davy Jones said about my father was true," he explained. "My father had many debts, and running from them proved too difficult with two children. So one day he promises us that we are going to a new land. We would have to take a ship, and I remember being excited to sail."

Emma squeezed his hand and smiled half-heartedly, a smile that Killian managed to briefly return before he looked away once more. "The sail was rough. There was a storm the last night of our journey, and my light went out. I called for my father, and he came . . ." To this day, Killian still didn't understand how his father could so readily come when he called and yet abandon him the same night. ". . . told me that one day I'd have to decide what kind of man I wanted to be."

"He was gone the next morning when the storm cleared," he said, his tone suddenly detached as he straightened his back, though his grip on Emma's hand tightened. "His thieving and debts had finally caught up to him, and there were guards waiting for him at port. So he spent the last of his coin on a rowboat and fled. I found all this out the next morning from the captain, of course . . . along with the fact that my father had sold me and Liam into servitude aboard the ship."

"How old were you?"

"Nine."

Emma didn't know what to say. She knew what abandonment felt like, and so she knew that apologies were empty words that no matter how sincere, were never enough. They were like a cheap Band-Aid over a gapping, gushing wound, and so Emma did not say that she was sorry for him, even if it was true. She stared at the water instead, and tightened her grip on his hand.

"And you're wondering where Davy Jones was all this time," she said knowingly. "Now that you know he knew. He knew and did nothing."

He swallowed. "Aye."

Killian wasn't sure what he would have wanted had he known about his relation to Davy Jones. To be raised aboard _The Dutchman_ seemed a stretch. Surrounded by the dead, sailing an endless sea, never to move forward. That was a half-life. He needed his freedom, and Liam would have never let him settle for anything less. He _hadn't_ let him settle for less.

Yet there had been _someone_ who could have been there. Someone who could have taken the weight of responsibility from Liam. Perhaps then Killian would not have felt so guilty for robbing him of his childhood, forcing his brother to care for him like the father that had abandoned them. Perhaps then he would have drank less, gambled less. Perhaps Liam would still be alive. _Perhaps Liam would still be alive_.

"Hey." Emma's voice called to him, fracturing his thoughts. He turned to look at her and found her gaze soft and warm, if a bit worried. She placed her hand on his face. It was something of a habit she was beginning to form, a habit that had him leaning into her touch and relishing its warmth. "Don't waste time asking, what if. It's just gonna drive you crazy. Trust me."

Her thumb brushed against the scar on his cheek, a token from Liam on one of the rare days they had to themselves aboard Silver's ship. They'd stupidly picked up two cutlasses and played heroes and villains. Killian had been the villain, and a light shudder went through him at Emma's touch. "You're right," he said. "It doesn't do to dwell on the past."

Emma smirked. She'd never get over the way he spoke. All eloquent and fancy and straight out of a Jane Austen novel. Killian smiled at her and reached up to clasp her hand so that he now held both of hers between them. "Besides," he said. "I find myself thinking more about the future as of late."

There was an odd buzzing in Emma's ears at his words, and her brain felt fuzzy as she tried to process what he meant. Because there was no mistaking it. He _meant_ it. There was that familiar steely, determined blue flame in his eyes that frightened her as much as it warmed her, that was just as unyielding as it was soft. She blinked. "You barely know me," she said, taking a step back.

But Killian didn't let go of her hands. He simply stepped with her. "I know enough," he said honestly. "And I want you, Emma. Even if I can't stand the way you throw off your boots and leave your clothes on the floor and that I find your hair everywhere and that you actually prefer wine to rum—which is _ridiculous_ , by the way—not to mention the fact that I wake up every bloody morning with you snoring in my ear—"

Emma grabbed the lapels of his coat and tugged him to her. They kissed like it was a battle. Emma nipped at his lips, only for Killian to bite back harder. His hand tightened in her hair. Her fingers slipped to clench in his vest, her nails scratching his chest. He pinned her to the rail with his hips. She hooked her leg around him and brought him even closer in challenge.

All the while their skin felt like fire. Their blood roared in their ears. Emma's chest was deliciously tight and warm, and Killian's entire body felt like the sea in a storm. Wild, powerful, and irrefutably honest. For all their shared passion, there was an air of beautiful simplicity around them. She was Emma Swan, and he was Killian Jones, and they were together.

And it was _right_.

Emma finally pulled away, but Killian refused. His lips skimmed her jaw, nipped at her ear. He left a trail of wet kisses down her neck and lingered at her collarbone. He'd leave a mark, which was his intention. Emma didn't care.

She did, however, have to clarify one thing. "I don't snore," she said.

Her voice was breathless, lacking any authority whatsoever, and Killian smiled against her skin. "Sorry, Swan," he said. "But you do. It's more of a purr, actually." He lifted his head to grin into her glare. "Like a cute little kitten."

Emma moved her hand in his hair to pinch the back of his neck. "I'm not cute," she insisted.

Killian smiled brilliantly. He hummed as he bent to kiss her neck yet again. "Then I believe, my darling Swan, we are at an impasse."

 _My darling Swan._ My _._

His.

It should make her upset. She belonged to no one but herself, dammit. She was a strong, independent woman who had gotten out of hell by her own damn self. She'd braved prison. She'd had a child. She'd made a life for herself when she had nothing but a cheap keychain and an old Volkswagen Bug.

But to be his meant to be wanted. _I want you, Emma._

And god help her, she wanted him, too.

"You're enough," she said, her fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. "Just because your father didn't see that doesn't mean it's not true, Killian."

Killian knew his eyes were watering, but he didn't care. If a tear fell, a tear fell. He didn't give one bloody fuck. Because as always, like Emma had hoped, he heard what she wasn't yet brave enough to say.

 _You're enough for me._

So if a tear happened to trail down his cheek as he bent to claim her lips again, he ignored it. He was enough for Emma Swan.

And that was enough for him.

Killian and Emma stayed on deck for the rest of the night. They eventually climbed up to the crow's nest, where Emma sat between his legs, leaning into his chest, her head tucked neatly in the crook of his neck while her hand fiddled with the long chain of his necklace. Her focus on his necklace prompted Killian to tell her the stories of how he'd come to gather every bauble and treasure attached to it—from his brother's ring and his mother's wedding band to the skull and crossbones he'd kept from a treasure chest on a sunken ship.

In turn she told him more about her life in the foster system. She told him about the bad homes she'd run away from, the good ones where she had hoped to stay. She told him about Lily, her first friend, and about the bail bonds woman who had been the catalyst for finding her armor. It was then, when Killian asked what her armor was, that Emma realized she hadn't worn her leather jacket since coming aboard the _Jolly_.

Killian held her tighter when she told him.

They talked about everything and nothing. Killian pointed out the stars and told the stories behind them. Some she knew because of her talks with Ace, but others she didn't and she listened contentedly and relished the gentle vibrations in Killian's chest as he spoke softly of lost loves and great battles. She told him about her first trip to a zoo and how she'd tried to stay in the penguin exhibit despite the smell because she thought the little birds were fancy in their tuxedos. Killian had needed an explanation about both "penguins" and "tuxedos" and how the two could possibly make sense together.

It was silly, pointless conversation that meant the world to Emma. Because it was new. It was different. It was intimacy on a level that neither Emma nor Killian had ever known because they never gave anyone the opportunity to get _that_ close. There was something beautifully fragile and terrifying about it—being vulnerable, sharing secrets, truly trusting someone else with knowledge that could break you.

Emma had tried with Neal, but it hadn't been the same. She had been too scared of sending him running for the hills. She'd told him about the foster system, about being an orphan, but nothing more. He'd never known about Lily. He'd never known that when she'd been a child, she had wanted to be a princess—someone beautiful and special and powerful who had not just a family but an entire kingdom that adored her.

But Killian knew, and he didn't laugh. Instead he told her that as a boy he'd dreamed of being just like Liam and how sometimes, in dark moments, he wondered just how big of a disappointment he'd turned out to be.

When the sun rose, Emma woke, unaware that she had fallen asleep at all. She blinked, her gaze slowly coming into focus on the soft leather collar of Killian's coat that she didn't remember covering her. It slipped from her shoulders as she stretched, yet the arms around her waist tightened. "I don't remember falling asleep," she said.

"It wasn't terribly long ago," Killian answered quietly, his lips at her hair. "I only dealt with your snores for an hour or so."

Emma huffed. "You need to let that go."

"Not a chance, love."

"C'mon," she said as she reluctantly pulled away from him, though she kept his coat. "We've got a heart to find." She shook her head. "I can't believe I just said that and it made sense."

Killian grinned as he followed her down to the deck. She headed for the galley, his coat over her shoulders, while he went to the helm, already reaching for his compass, only to remember that it wasn't his compass that he needed. His scowl quickly morphed into a glare when he climbed the steps to see none other than Jack Sparrow at the helm.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"Fulfilling my end of the bargain," Jack responded with a sarcastic smile before he glanced pointedly at the crow's nest. "I would have waited, but you seemed a bit preoccupied. I was loathe to disturb such a touching display. Bit of a romantic, me."

Killian's jaw clenched. "Let's be clear, Sparrow," he said. "You're only here to lead us to the heart. The minute you're no longer useful, you might just find that Davy Jones will be the least of your concerns."

"Ah, so you don't trust me. Fair enough, as I don't trust you. But," Jack took a step forward, though he kept one hand on the helm, keeping their course, "let it be known that I haven't survived this long with just me good looks and charm. You help me, and I help you, and then we go our merry little separate ways. Until then, we'll both just have to deal with our mutual dislike of the other, savvy?"

Killian gritted his teeth. "Aye," he finally agreed and Jack abruptly straightened up with a wide smile.

"There!" he said. "Not so hard, now, is it?" Turning to face the deck, he declared, "We're well on our way, Jones." He checked his compass again. "We'll be rid of each other soon enough."

Despite his best efforts, Killian took a step closer in curiosity as he eyed the compass in Jack's hand. "If your compass doesn't point north," he said. "Then what does it point to?"

"What I want most."

"Handy, that."

"Aye."

"Does it work for anything?"

"Even rum. Especially rum. It's always—"

"—gone."

And as if they realized at the same time that they were getting along, Killian and Jack pointedly looked away from each other and took a step a part. To compensate for not being at the wheel, Killian began harshly barking orders, sending the still sleepy crew into a frenzy of action that made Jack smirk to himself as he snapped his compass shut.

On deck, Emma looked up at the helm, eyes narrowing at the sight of Jack behind the wheel rather than Killian. While the majority of her wanted to have the swaggering pirate away from the helm, a small part of her—the, god, she couldn't believe this actually made sense, the _fan_ part of her—was just a bit giddy at the thought of working the deck while Captain Jack Sparrow stood at the helm.

The same could not be said for the rest of the crew.

She put up with their grumblings as the morning passed. It was mostly harmless and reminded her of a bunch of disgruntled toddlers who were upset with their father for hiring a babysitter that they didn't like. But by the middle of the day, the mutters began to take a turn. It changed from "Who the bloody hell does he think he is?" to "Didn't know we'd switched ships."

When she heard a sailor called Bellamy mutter under his breath, "Didn't know Jones was the type to roll over and take it in the arse," Emma cracked.

Her entire body seemed to act on instinct. Without a thought to her actions, she dropped her line and spun, grabbing hold of his vest, and then with a strength that surprised everyone on deck, yanked him back until he hit the rail. Bellamy was a sailor that Emma had never really talked with. He was a quiet one, and from what she had heard, had been picked up in a port a year ago. He minded his own business, kept to himself, and until now, Emma had been perfectly fine with that.

"You got a problem?" she demanded, and before he could say either way, she added, "Because if you don't watch your mouth, you're about to have one. _Captain_ Jones is doing what needs to be done in order to save your ungrateful ass and everyone else on this ship. So either you can shut your mouth or take a swim. What's it gonna be?"

It was only when he jerked away from her that she realized she had drawn the dagger from her belt and pressed it under his ribs. The knowledge threatened to make her drop her guard but she held firm, glaring into in his eyes, daring him to argue. He didn't. He swallowed and said, "Aye, mum."

Emma held him for a second longer before she abruptly let go, finally lifting her head to look at the assembled crowd around her and suddenly feeling vulnerable under the weight of their stares despite the way her back was straight and her eyes were blazing. She had a damn weapon in her hand and yet she felt defensive.

When Killian appeared next to her, she allowed herself to relax ever so slightly, though it had less to do with him, as Killian, than the fact that he was the Captain. This was his ship, his crew, and had she honestly just threatened one of them as if she had that same authority?

Killian's voice was deceptively calm as he asked, "Is there a problem?"

"No, sir," Bellamy said.

"Ah, good. It would be terrible if there were, Mr. Bellamy. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, sir."

"A ship functions best when the crew follows their Captain," Killian said as he slowly stalked forward, "whatever his course." He paused directly in front of Bellamy. "Do you know why that is, Mr. Bellamy?"

"No, sir."

"Because a good sailor knows his place." Killian's voice gained a sharp edge. "Do you know your place, sailor?"

Bellamy swallowed. "Yes, Captain."

"Very good." Killian leaned the slightest bit closer, his eyes dark with promise, as he added, "The next time you forget, the last thing you'll remember is the feeling of water suffocating your lungs when I keelhaul you the length of this ship. Is that clear?" Looking up and taking a step back, he addressed the crew. "Is that clear?" he repeated.

His question was met with a chorus of "Yes, Captain" and it was only after another heavy pause that he turned and snapped, "Now, get back to work." However, when he walked to Emma, the ice in his eyes melted, and the harsh set of his lips softened into a concerned frown. "Come with me, love," he said quietly.

They retreated up to the quarterdeck where both of them pretended that Jack was absent, despite the way he glanced over his shoulder at them as they went to the rail. Emma placed her hands on the rail, feeling the need to hold on to something. Killian placed his hand over hers. "Are you alright, Swan?"

She stared at the water. It didn't hold the same calm as it had during the night. The waves were wild and powerful. Nothing about it exuded peace. It was chaos. "I didn't know I'd drawn my dagger," she said. "I didn't know until he flinched."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing that bears repeating."

"He upset you."

"He insulted you," she said. "But it was more than that." Emma frowned as she continued to watch the waves fall on top of each other. "He implied that this wasn't your ship anymore, that you were weak, and I just . . . snapped. And then you . . ."

Killian eyed her warily. "Then I, what?"

"You . . ." She shook her head and then turned to look at him. The hesitance in his stare made her wish she'd kept quiet. Insecurities, all too familiar to her, flashed in his eyes as he stared at her and waited for the shoe to drop. She knew that look, and she hated that she'd put it there. "Sometimes I forget," she said slowly. "I forget that you're this big, bad pirate Captain. I forget that you have a reputation and that you earned it. I forget because . . . because all I see is just Killian. And it's because that's the part of you that you let me see."

His hand tightened on hers. "That's the only part that matters, isn't it? That's the part of myself that I'm . . ." _proud of_.

He wanted to say it, but he couldn't. Killian let the sentence hang, his voice trailing off as he looked at the water. "I do not wish for you to be tainted by my darkness, love."

Emma pulled her hand out from under his. "I'm not some saint, Killian."

"I know that, Swan," he insisted, clenching his hand into a fist to keep from reaching for her. "But that doesn't make it any easier."

"To do what?"

"To shield you from the darker parts of myself. I care too much about you."

Emma shook her head. "No," she said. "There's more to it than that."

Killian clenched his jaw but did not reply. It only confirmed to her that she was right. But when silence continued to fill the space between them, Emma took another step back. Killian did not follow her like he had last night. He let her go. She hated the flash of hurt she felt, almost as much as she hated herself for the flash of anger in her veins when he let her walls go up.

She was already so used to him steadily chipping away at them that it had become expected.

Now she felt a crushing disappointment.

This was what happened when you cared. It hurt.

"Find me when you want to be honest," she said before she returned to the deck.

Not a single crew member dared to look her way.

* * *

 **Yeah, you honestly didn't expect it to be smooth sailing for long, did you? Emma and Killian still have a long way to go.**

 **If Emma seems a bit abrupt, fear not. We really get into her head next chapter. She's got some things to work through, stubborn Swan that she is.**

 **So . . . next chapter preview goes to . . . Emma!**

 _ **Preview for Ch14**_

 **"I hate you." - Emma**

 **Bahaha, I'm evil.**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Notes: I'll just skip to the chapter since everyone railed at me for the "I hate you" line I teased. ;)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. I do, however, own an Alaskan malamute who enjoys a good cuddle.**

* * *

Chapter 14

Killian stood at the wheel. It was an unusually bright night, the stars high, the sky cloudless. Perfect sailing conditions. Under any other circumstance, he would have been wonderfully content. He'd spent many a night at the wheel for the simple pleasure that the waves, the moon, and the silence brought him.

That was not at all the case tonight.

Tonight, he was at the wheel because he was fairly certain that Emma would not welcome him to bed. Even if she would, he had no desire to experience the level of awkwardness that would undoubtedly fall between them. He now understood an old piece of advice perfectly: Never go to bed angry.

Killian had simply chosen not to go to bed at all.

It was his own fault, he knew. Emma had every right to demand honesty from him, and she was right to think that there was more to his reluctance to expose her to his darkness. It was about more than a desire to protect her from himself. Already, his influence had changed her, this pirate life that he had so willingly, selfishly brought up on her.

The guilt he felt at the confused, uncertain look in her eyes as she told him about drawing her dagger to threaten Bellamy would forever be a part of him. He was changing her, and it was obvious that even Emma wasn't sure if that was good thing or not. She'd scared herself. She was questioning herself.

And that was his fault.

It didn't help matters that had Emma not been present, had he never met her, the confrontation with Bellamy would have gone differently. Mere threatening words would not have been enough, even if he hadn't heard what the sailor had said. Just knowing it was disrespectful would have given Killian more than enough cause to sink the very dagger Emma had drawn into Bellamy's gut. He would have thrown the man overboard without a care, spat at Smee to clean up the blood from his beloved ship, and sailed on.

That man was still beneath his skin, still part of him. He just . . . he didn't notice it as much when Emma was with him. She made those darker urges easier to push aside. Because he wanted to be better for her, worthy of her. He didn't want her to be scared of him.

He didn't want her to run.

Killian took out Jack's compass, refusing to admire the craftsmanship as he flipped it open. It was a strange thing, to look at a compass that did not point north, yet he followed the arrow all the same . . . except for the fact that it was currently pointed right behind him and a little to the right.

Where he'd already figured out was exactly where his bed (Emma's bed) rested.

This wasn't the first time it had happened.

"Godsdammit," he mumbled before giving the compass a good shake as he thought of his desire to find the heart of Davy Jones to save Emma. The compass appropriately spun, pointing toward his previous course with only a slight adjustment that Killian easily corrected.

He spotted Jack emerging from the crew's quarters and hoped that the captain would leave him be. Naturally, as if the universe heard Killian's plea, Jack turned and headed straight for the helm. The man was without his brown coat and hat, although he wisely kept his sword and pistol in his belt. The necklaces around his neck swung as he casually ascended the steps to the helm.

He pointed at Killian. "You need to find yourself a girl, mate," he said before turning to look behind him, as if he expected Emma to be there. "Or, perhaps it's that you've already found a girl, but are incapable of _wooing_ said strumpet."

Killian drew his sword. "Emma's no common whore."

"I stand corrected," Jack said, hands raised to his chest comically. When Killian did not lower his sword, Jack rolled his eyes. "Put it away, mate. It's not worth getting beat."

Killian scoffed, though he did lower his sword. "Whenever you wish to test that theory, be sure to let me know."

"Agreed." Casting one last glance at the sword, Jack ambled forward until he stood on the other side of the wheel. He looked down at his compass in Killian's hand with a knowing twinkle in his eye. "Bit spotty, that old thing," he said. "Needs a clear mind to work properly."

Killian's eyes narrowed. "My business with Emma is no concern of yours."

"It is when your business effects my business, which sort of makes it our business, really." Jack leaned forward and grabbed the wheel. "So just why is that you're after your good grandad's heart?"

"Why are you?"

"Let's just say it's a matter of leverage."

They sailed in silence for a long while. Jack sat on the rail with the impeccable sense of balance gained from a lifetime at sea. He held a flask of rum in his hands as he silently appraised the younger captain. Jack had heard the stories. Captain Jones of the _Jolly Roger._ Ruthless, clever, yet lived by a code. Jack liked that. The best pirates had a code.

You learned a lot about a man with a code.

You also learned a lot just by watching, and no one was better at observation than Captain Jack Sparrow. He knew everything that he needed to know about Killian Jones, and he'd only been on the _Jolly_ for one day. His first clue was the schedule. Jones ran his ship with the precision of a military man. Ex-Navy, then. Honorable. Moral. Pragmatic.

His second clue was the crew. A captain's crew told wonders. Every crew, whether pirate or not, was held together by one of two things: fear and respect. Rarely did the two go hand in hand. It was always one or the other.

Not so on the _Jolly_ , though in the most curious way.

It had been made abundantly clear to Jack earlier that afternoon that whether anyone knew it or not, there were actually _three_ captains aboard this ship. Jones and himself, of course, but then there was Emma Swan. Swan. He still wasn't sure what he made of that coincidence.

Nonetheless, she held the same fire like another Swann he knew.

He'd been surprised (and terribly impressed) when she had grabbed that sailor and tossed him into the rail. Yet it hadn't been the troublesome sailor's reaction—appropriately nervous, as it were—it had been the reaction of some of the crew that had drawn Jack's attention. Those closest to Emma had made a move for their weapons, yet not in their crewmate's defense, but in _hers_. They'd closed ranks around her like she was royalty, though he doubted that the lass had noticed.

Jones had. It's what had prompted him to intervene. Particularly since there were still a few sailors who looked a bit too opportunistic as they watched the confrontation.

Two things held together a crew, fear and respect.

Emma Swan commanded the respect; Killian Jones commanded the fear.

Curious thing, that. Quite the team.

Which was what made Jack hop off the rail and saunter toward the decidedly troubled captain. "So what have you done to upset your bonnie lass?" he asked.

Killian sighed. "I should just kill you now."

"I really wouldn't. You might still need my help."

"Debatable."

"You wouldn't really leave Miss Swan's fate to chance, now would you?" Killian's eyes sharpened, and Jack smiled smugly. "Ah, I thought so. You're not after the heart for you own sake, are you? You're after it to save her."

Killian closed his eyes briefly. "What of it?" he said, his tone clipped. "Our goals are still aligned."

"Aye, they are," Jack agreed simply. "Now," he took a sip of rum, "just why is that you're out here instead of cozying up to your girl?"

Killian gritted his teeth. "I suspect my presence is not wanted."

"Well, I think that's rather obvious, mate. Perhaps I could be of some help."

"What could you possibly know about it?"

"I've upset a fair amount of women in my time. One lass, in particular. She reminds me of your Swan, actually. Dangerous lot, those lasses."

"And what exactly makes them dangerous?" Killian asked, his voice dry yet the slightest bit curious.

"You see, these ladies, lovely and charming though they are, are, in fact, quite mad." Killian cocked an eyebrow, and Jack raised a finger to elaborate. "Because," he said, "quite often they know exactly what they want, but are too afraid to want it, and so they go about wanting to not want what they want because they're scared of actually getting what they want."

Killian blinked. "That . . . strangely makes sense."

"I do that quite a lot, actually. Yet everyone always seems so surprised."

"You hide cleverness behind quick words and misdirection. It's hardly a new tactic."

Jack just gave a small, sneaky smile in response before he said, "So, what is it that dear Miss Swan is afraid of wanting? Mind you, I have a guess." When Killian didn't answer, he shrugged. "I'm going to out on a limb, mate, and say it's you."

"Hardly an original idea."

"Quite right," Jack agreed simply, before falling into silence once again, only this time Killian was not fooled. He just waited. "I've heard the stories, you know."

Killian cocked an eyebrow. "Stories?"

"You have yourself quite the reputation, a rather vicious one," Jack explained lightly, though there was an undeniably serious glint in his eye as he continued, "All the stories paint the same picture. Good man. Charming. Fair. Has a code. But," he held up a hand as he took a few steps forward, "turn on him, insult him, challenge him . . . and the last sound you hear is your greasy insides hitting the deck."

Jack tilted his head appraisingly yet mockingly as he said, "Somehow I doubt you'd like your Swan to see you in such a light. And perhaps she got a glimpse earlier today, during that little," he made a shooing motion with his hand behind him, "confrontation."

"I didn't do anything."

"Aye, but you wanted to. Certainly you would have, had the lass not been there. Don't want to show her the side of you that's not so dashing?"

"Sparrow—"

"Bit of advice, mate," Jack interrupted lightly, "show her."

Killian's anger abruptly faded in surprise. "What?"

"If she wants you, she'll take the good and the bad, light and the dark."

"She shouldn't have to."

"Ah, but life is full of things we shouldn't do. Doesn't necessarily make them wrong now, ay?"

"What do you care?"

"Oh, that's simple," Jack said quickly with a shrug. "Much better sail if Mum and Dad are getting along."

* * *

The next few days aboard the _Jolly Roger_ felt like walking in a glass house. Perfect on the outside, pristine and bright. Yet inside? One step away from shattering.

Emma felt each fragile step as she worked the deck as if nothing was wrong. The crew watched her warily out of the corner of their eyes. They were always quick to greet her, yet hesitant to say anything more. It was the sort of unfailing politeness that a mother forced on her child whenever they went out in public.

And it got on Emma's nerves.

She didn't want to be treated differently. After all, she wasn't different. She wasn't.

Yet on the morning of the fourth day, she threw in the towel. She gave up the pretense of pretending that everything was normal, as if she was content to listen to Vincent ramble or Bee sing or Ace tell a story. As if she still went to bed with Killian and woke up pleasantly trapped in his arms. As if they still understood each other.

Because right now, Emma did not understand him.

And it was driving her nuts.

She needed that understanding between them. It made things easier. It eliminated the need to talk, to really dig for answers, and Emma had always found that incredibly comforting. Digging for answers was often dirty work, and sometimes not at all worth the effort, especially when you got an answer you didn't want.

So on day four of her self-imposed, Killian avoidance campaign, she retreated to her nest.

No one dared to follow her.

Except Vincent.

He plopped himself down to sit beside her like he'd done dozens of times before, slung his arms forward to rest on his knobby knees, and then cocked his head toward her in that way of his that caused those stray blond hairs from his ponytail to fall in his eyes. "So," he said. "What ails your mind today, my friend?"

Emma shook her head.

"Oh, dear. It's the Captain, isn't it? Ours, mind you. Not Sparrow."

She sighed.

"Bloody hell, that bad? What did he do?"

Emma huffed. "Nothing," she said.

Vincent's brows furrowed. "I don't follow. If he hasn't done anything, why are you angry with him?"

"I'm not angry," she snapped. "I'm . . . frustrated."

"If you want my help, lass, you're going to have to give me a bit more than that."

"Why do you want to help?"

"Because it's a goddamn shit show down on deck. The lot of us feel like we're walking on thin ice."

Emma winced. "Sorry. I just . . ."

He smiled gently, encouraging. "Just what, lass?"

"Do you think I'm different?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean it like I said it. Have I changed?"

"Well, of course you have. That's not—ah, I see." He nodded to himself. "You're talking about the other day, aren't you? With Bellamy?" Emma looked away, and Vincent shook his head. "No, no, no. Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Be dramatic."

Emma stared incredulously. "I'm not being dramatic. I'm being serious."

"Emma, what you did the other day was completely appropriate."

"I pulled a dagger on someone, and I didn't even think about it."

"That's what pirates do."

"I'm not a pirate."

"Perhaps not like the rest of us," Vincent allowed. "You're better than us, yes—"

"I'm not—"

"Your denial only makes it that much more true," he said quickly. "Now, listen to me, lass. Please, listen." He reached out and took her hand. "You've spent months on a pirate ship. You're adapting to this life. Of course, you're going to change. That change isn't necessarily for the worst. It's like with the Naval officer, yeah?"

Emma flinched slightly at the reminder of the man she'd killed. That act, too, had been one of instinct. "You're defending yourself, Emma," he said. "You're surviving."

"Bellamy wasn't the one with the knife."

"Yet he was in that moment the most dangerous man on this ship," Vincent said firmly before smiling wryly. "For a lass who claims to trust no one, you have a remarkable habit of trusting them anyway." Emma frowned and Vincent explained, "The men on this ship, myself included, we . . . we get on fairly well, the majority of us. Friends, even. But it's all a matter of circumstance. That goes for the Captain. We may like him, we may think he's great sailor, we may share a drink with him, but that doesn't mean we're loyal to him, that we're bound by a common code or set of morals. We have none."

While Emma listened intently, a deep furrow in her brow, she couldn't stop the small smile from turning her lips. "I don't think that applies to all of you," she said. "You'd never turn on Killian."

"I'd like to think I wouldn't," Vincent said honestly. "I owe him a debt I'll never repay, yet ultimately, I want to survive, Emma. There's no room for nobility in piracy." His eyes drifted to the helm. "And for those who possess it, oftentimes it's a heavy burden."

Emma looked down at the deck. Her gaze found Bellamy, who was laughing with another sailor while they worked the lines. "You think he would have tried something?" she asked. "A mutiny?"

"Aye, in a heartbeat," Vincent said quickly. "It's a dangerous thing the Captain's done, bringin' another captain aboard, especially one like Jack Sparrow. The man's nearly a legend, a member of the Brethren Court. And giving him the wheel like the Captain did the other day? That was just inviting trouble, lass."

"Any one of the crew could have thought they'd found better waters," he continued. "If he had enough men on his side, we could have easily mutinied, particularly if Captain Sparrow went along, which at that point, he really wouldn't have had a choice . . . otherwise he's walking the plank along with Captain Jones."

"Not me?"

Vincent hesitated. "Depends on who's taken over. The majority of us are quite fond of you, Emma, but there are a few who would . . . find you a new place aboard the ship."

Killian's voice echoed in her ears. _A ship functions best when the crew follows their Captain . . . because a good sailor knows his place_.

Emma shuddered. "That's why Killian was so harsh, wasn't it? He'd already thought that through before he even left the helm."

"It's exactly why he left," Vincent agreed. "Captain Jones knows mutiny. Led one himself once, so I hear. We don't follow him out of respect or loyalty. We follow him out of fear, and Bellamy needed to be reminded of that."

"I just . . ." she sighed heavily, frustrated. "It just startled me, seeing him like that. And it wasn't even that big a deal, you know? He didn't do anything crazy. He nearly killed a man not a day after we met."

"Ah, I'd wondered where Hawkins went." Emma gave him a look, and he smiled apologetically. "Sorry."

She shook her head. "Killian just sounded so . . . dark. I mean, he's a pirate, and I _know_ that. I know that there's darkness in him. I saw it the moment I met him, but I just . . ."

"Look past it?" Vincent offered with a soft smile. "Perhaps that's because there's much more to see."

"I know there is," she admitted quietly, nearly shy. "But I don't like him hiding from me, and I don't like that he's putting me on this pedestal. I'm just Emma."

"Oh, lass. You're not _just_ anything."

"Not you, too."

"Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"Not really, no." He patted her leg. "Now, come on. We've wasted enough time."

Emma followed him wordlessly down to the deck but when she went to follow him to the lines, he paused and frowned. "Just where do you think you're going?" he asked before pointedly looking at the helm.

Emma pursed her lips. "I hate you."

"I know."

She felt unusually cautious, and therefore increasingly irritated as she climbed the steps to the quarterdeck—because honestly, since when did she get so worked up?—and the fact that she felt Killian's eyes on her did not help matters. At all. It made her feel like a bug beneath a microscope, and she found herself questioning her avoidance of him.

But no. Vincent wasn't entirely right. She wasn't being dramatic.

She was being cautious, and there was nothing wrong with that. He was keeping something from her, hiding from her, and years of continual disappointment had led Emma to immediately retreat behind her walls whenever anyone she . . . grew attached to . . . began to withdraw.

She thought that maybe it hurt so much with Killian because he'd always been unbelievably honest and upfront with her. An open book. Now he was keeping something from her, a whole part of himself, and that, well, that hurt.

Killian was at the wheel while Jack stood near with a spyglass, and Emma felt a flash of irritation as she realized that there was no way to talk to Killian with the other captain present. But maybe, maybe she didn't need to talk. Maybe, for now, she just needed to let him know that she missed him.

So she took the open compass from him, meaning to hold it so that she could take his hand and lace their fingers together like he seemed so fond of doing, only to have the needle immediately spin to point right to him. She blushed hotly.

But Killian's surprised, relieved little smile was worth it.

* * *

 **See? Nothing to fear, my doves.**

 **But I couldn't resist ruffling some feathers.**

 **Okay . . . abandoning the bird pun . . . now . . . also, couldn't resist that one.**

 **How's that, though? Killian and Emma still have some talking to do, but at least there's some light at the end of the tunnel, right? We've had a bit too much of the sweet Killian we all know and love, but that's not all that he is. Always good to have a reminder.**

 **Oh, and writing one of Jack's epic tongue twister lines was so fucking fun. And disturbingly easy.**

 **Quote time! Let's see . . . Jack? Yes, Jack. - "The good Commodore is rather like a dog with a bone."**

 **See you Friday!**

 **AC**


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Notes: Hello, hello! Jolly good day, yes? Well, I hope it is for some of you, because I've been dealing with rain, rain, rain, and more fucking rain, and so help me God, if I have to take out an Alaskan Malamute to piss in said rain one more time and shake herself not outside on the balcony (no, no, no _never_ in the logical place where I purposefully linger) but inside right onto the couch I was just about to plop my grumpy ass down on.**

 **I love her, really. Especially her fluffiness. But Jesus Christ, she holds more water than a cactus.**

 ***coughs* *straightens invisible tie* *smooths invisible tie***

 **Now, where were we?**

 **Oh, yes. Jack.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT. Or Disney. Or anything of value. Except my dog.**

* * *

Chapter 15

The sun had just reached its zenith on the fourth day of their journey when Jack spotted land.

And a ship.

He raised his spyglass to read the name painted across the stern. "Bugger," he muttered. He glanced at Killian. "We're about to have company, mate."

Killian cursed, took the spyglass from Jack's hand—pointedly ignoring Jack's childish frown—and had a look for himself. "Damn."

"What?"

Beside him, Emma snatched the spyglass from his grasp so that she could look. Killian let it go with a small glance that was equally as amused as it was exasperated, while Jack just watched his spyglass continue to change hands (that were decidedly _not_ his own) with a pout. "You do realize that's mine, don't you?" he complained.

Emma ignored him. She studied the ship anchored just off the beach of the island they were fast approaching. It was a beautiful ship. Big and grand. Definitely built for war. She counted sixty cannons. The name on the stern read _HMS Dauntless_.

She collapsed the spyglass and handed it back to Jack. "Who's the Captain?" she asked.

"A rather persistent Commodore Norrington," Jack said. "Got a bit of a history, him and me."

"I remember him," Killian said. "He was a Captain in my day." He glanced at Emma with a grin. "Hated pirates."

"And I'm afraid I didn't much sway him to think otherwise," Jack added.

Killian scoffed. "Why am I not surprised?" He stared at the ship. "Is he going to be a problem?"

"Define _problem_ ," Jack said quickly. "The good Commodore is rather like a dog with a bone. I suggest that we make use of that, and perhaps, well . . . allow him to chase his tail."

"A distraction."

"Aye."

"And what do you suggest?"

Jack straightened smugly. "Me."

* * *

Emma did not like their plan.

She wouldn't even call it a plan. It was just an idea. A stupid idea. And she could tell by the way Killian's lips grew thinner and thinner as they neared the shore that he was no more a fan of the "plan" than she was.

It relied a bit too much on trusting Jack Sparrow.

And so when they reached the shore and secured the boats, while Killian began giving orders to scour the island for the heart, she took Vincent aside. "I need your help," she said, keeping her voice low, barely allowing her lips to move, too conscious of the people around them to dare draw too much attention.

Vincent kept his eyes on Killian as he said, "What would you ask of me?"

"I don't trust Jack not to take the heart for himself," she said. "He's the one with the compass. He's the one that will find it." She chanced a glance at him. "When he makes a break for it, follow him."

"Aye, mum."

Emma ignored the little quirk to his lips as he said it, barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes before she moved away from him. The men soon scattered around her, heading further inland to search for the heart, while Killian and Jack remained behind. As a group they started down the beach toward where the _Dauntless_ was anchored.

Three shadows stood waiting for them, and it felt strangely surreal to Emma as she walked side by side with two pirate captains to parlay with a freaking Commodore on a deserted island in the middle of nowhere. The sword strapped to her waist brushed against her leg as she walked. Her hair was tied back with a piece of leather but with each sharp breeze from the waves, more strands came loose until she might as well have left her hair down.

But it felt oddly right. The wind on her face, her hair whipping back and forth, even the cutlass against her leg. Maybe it was simply the feeling that came with a purpose, a mission. Still, when she caught Killian's gaze, she smiled a little, and he smirked back faintly.

It was a little dramatic as they stopped around fifteen feet shy of Norrington and his party. The open space of white sand between them felt like a poor flag declaring a cease fire. Emma easily picked out Norrington from the other two men. He was dressed in a Naval uniform, not unlike the one that she'd found one night in Killian's wardrobe, yet whereas Killian's uniform was still impeccably clean and neat, Norrington's was worse for wear. Its edges were frayed. His white pants stained with grime. His dark hair was in a messy ponytail, and his beard was sloppily kept. Despite his straight posture, the man looked haggard.

On either side of him were two other men. One Emma did not know, although he wore a uniform similar to Norrington's. The other man, however, Emma could take a guess. She just couldn't quite believe it.

"Should have known you'd be here, Barbosa," Jack said lightly, though he regarded his former first mate with an unmistakably dark look. "You always did fancy power more than gold."

"Still can't move on from the past, can you, Jack?"

Barbosa wasn't at all like his Disney adaptation. Whereas in the movie, he was rough and ugly, obviously a villain, in the Enchanted Forest he was undeniably handsome. His dirty blonde hair hung to his shoulders in wet curls from sea spray. He was clean-shaven as well, without a scraggly beard. There was almost a cherubic look to him in his rounded cheeks and pink lips.

Emma couldn't picture him as a man who would maroon his Captain on a deserted island with a pistol and a single shot.

The only thing Disney had gotten right about Hector Barbosa was, ironically enough, his peg leg.

Emma was inordinately pleased by that fact.

"Got a long memory, me," Jack said before glancing at Norrington. "For example, the last time I saw you, dear Commodore, you swore to hunt down every pirate on the seven seas. Yet here you are with the worst of the lot."

"All men must make sacrifices if they are to achieve their goals," Norrington responded stiffly. "The world may have given up on finding her, but I have not. Where is she, Sparrow?"

" _Captain_ ," Jack corrected. "Honestly, mate. How many times?"

"She?" Killian interrupted. "Who?"

"Elizabeth Swann."

"Swann?"

Killian looked at Emma, but she only shrugged. "Don't look at me," she said. "This wasn't in the movie."

"The what?" Jack questioned.

She shook her head. "Never mind. It's not important." Looking from Norrington to Barbosa, she said, "So, here's the deal. All of us want the heart. Only one of us is going to get it."

"Aye, lass," Barbosa agreed before reaching into the pocket of his coat and withdrawing a key. It was heavy and ornate, black as coal, and swung from a thin leather strap. "But how do ye plan on openin' it?"

Killian immediately drew his sword. "I could always cut off your hand," he offered lightly, his eyes darting down to Barbosa's wooden leg. "Even things up a bit."

Barbosa drew his sword, causing Emma to draw hers, all while Norrington capitalized on the momentary distraction and leveled the point of his blade under Jack's chin. Then Jack's sword was out, and everyone was pointing something sharp at someone.

"I'm sure there's a way we can all talk this out," Jack began, but Norrington interrupted.

"Where's Elizabeth?"

"Not here, if that's what you're hoping. Though, honestly, she did leave you, mate. Ever think she might not actually want you chasing after her like some lovesick pup?"

Everyone moved at once. Norrington lunged at Jack with a shout, Killian attacked Barbosa in the same second, and so Emma and Norrington's lieutenant were left staring each other for one long moment before their blades clashed out of necessity and a strange sensation of not wanting to be left out.

Fighting in the sand was not something that Emma would ever recommend. She would much rather fight to keep her balance on a lolling ship than shifting sand. However, much to her surprise, she wasn't the first to fall. Killian landed on his back with a curse, sand from Barbosa's boot dusting his vest, before he rolled to the side just as a sword struck the sand where his head had just been.

Then Barbosa was dashing into the trees, black key still in his hand, and Killian was right on his heels, shouting over his shoulder, "Get the compass!"

Emma growled, and Jack, still dueling with Norrington, looked over, affronted. "Oi!" he complained.

Facing the lieutenant once again, she sighed and said, "Sorry about this," before kicking up a wave of sand into his face. He had no control over his reaction, his hand coming up to his face, and so Emma took two quick steps forward, and whacked him in the temple with the hilt of her sword.

Then she turned her sword on Jack. It felt wrong, but she ignored it. She needed the compass to find the heart. She could do this. Killian could get the key, and she could get the compass. They did make a great team, after all.

So she pressed her attack on Jack, though it seemed to make little difference to the captain, who fended off her attack along with Norrington's with an ease that reminded her of Killian. Frustrated, she lunged, making a wide swipe that Jack deftly parried, hitting her blade just so and knocking it from her hand. Overbalanced, she fell forward.

"Sorry, love," he apologized. "But I need that heart."

"So do I!"

Jack spun around Norrington and threw back his elbow, hitting the man in the face and sending him to the ground in a daze. Emma struggled to get to her sword, yet the moment she grabbed the hilt, Jack stepped onto the blade. "I am truly sorry, love," he said. "Believe it or not. But your young Killian will do anything to keep you safe, including betraying me, and I can't risk that."

Emma growled and made a grab for the compass swinging from his belt, but he agilely leapt out of reach and then charged into the jungle. There was a second where she and Norrington, who had regained his wits, simply stared at each other, debating whether to fight each other or run after everyone else. They moved at the same time, and it felt to Emma like a schoolyard sprinting contest as they followed Jack.

* * *

Killian had chased Barbosa—who was astonishingly fast even with a wooden leg—to an old mill that was a crumbling mass of charcoal-colored stone and rotted wood. He caught the treacherous first mate on the second flight of stairs, the blade of his sword tearing into the man's coat. "Missed," Barbosa taunted.

"It's early yet," Killian retorted.

They fought with the kind of speed and blunt grace that came with mastery over a blade, though Killian steadily advanced, forcing Barbosa higher up the stairs. Close quarters were to his advantage. He had two good feet to Barbosa's one.

Realizing he needed to even the odds, Barbosa began to talk. "Who's the woman?" he goaded. "Last I heard of Killian Jones, he was either between the thighs of a whore or stone drunk. She must be talented if ye were willin' to bring her aboard."

Killian gritted his teeth. "Watch it, mate."

The clash of their blades became harsher, the sound of steel slashing against steel sharper. They made it to the top level, where a great black bell hung suspended above them. Killian attacked relentlessly, using his anger as fuel, yet for every step in their dance that Barbosa missed, he leveled the playing field with his words.

"She's lovely, your whore. Good form."

Killian lunged too sharply and received a slender cut to the arm that he didn't feel.

Barbosa laughed. "Oh, you like her, don't ya? Don't worry, Captain. I'll keep her warm after yer gone."

Finally, Barbosa fell into Killian's trap. He left his side open as he swung out in a rage, accepted the burn as the blade sliced over his ribs, yet when Barbosa expected him to move away from the pain, he leaned into it, startling the man, and giving Killian the opportunity yank him forward and sink his blade into Barbosa's gut.

The man jumped in surprise, his mouth hanging open in shock, only to smile in the next second, unfazed. Killian stared in confusion. "What the bloody hell are you?"

Barbosa laughed. "Cursed," he spit. He shoved Killian back, sending him tumbling down the stairs and into the wall, but Killian only smiled through his bloody mouth and held up the key that he'd lifted from Barbosa when he'd stabbed him.

"Tough luck, mate," he said, before leaping off the stairs and grasping one of the ropes used to ring the bell. Like a fireman, he slid down the rope until he was at the bottom of the tower, and with a laugh, left Barbosa to shout his rage into the sky.

* * *

Jack Sparrow was no easy man to follow, but Vincent managed.

He had watched the confrontation on the beach anxiously, more out of worry for Emma than his captain—Killian Jones could well take care of himself—but he'd found himself pitching forward to help when it was actually Killian who was the first to hit the sand. His captain was back on his feet soon enough, chasing after Barbosa, charging through the brush not five yards away from where Vincent had chosen to crouch.

He let him go. Emma's orders were to follow Sparrow.

And when the man himself ran past him not a few minutes later that was exactly what Vincent did. It was hard work. Vincent had never been much of a runner. A bout of sickness when he'd been young had given him what he liked to call weak bones, and despite the arduous life aboard a ship, he'd always found himself more comfortable at sea than on land. Land was rough and hard and jarred his joints as he chased after Sparrow.

But he kept at it, and Sparrow was too focused on his compass to notice that he had a tagalong. They slowed the further into the jungle that they went, the sounds of the fighting fading in the distance, and then it took every ounce of Vincent's patience not to be seen or heard. Sparrow was a clever man, and at times Vincent was sure that he had been noticed when the Captain of the _Black Pearl_ would suddenly turn and look over his shoulder.

Yet when it continued to happen, Vincent wondered if the man was simply paranoid.

They walked only a little further into the jungle before Jack once again came to a halt, though he did not look over his shoulder. He fell to his knees and began to dig with his hands. It was slow going, despite the soil being more sand than dirt, but Vincent did not make his move. Not yet.

He heard the heart before he saw it.

 _Thump, thump . . . thump, thump . . ._ like the steady crash of waves against a ship. Vincent peered around the trunk of the tree he had chosen to hide behind, only to see overturned soil. No Sparrow.

It was also when he felt the cool metal of a pistol against his neck. His shoulders tensed. His hands automatically came up, placating. "Bugger," he muttered.

"Too right," Jack agreed. "I bet it was Emma who told you to follow me. Smart lass, that one. Damn good pirate."

"Aye."

"I'm not going to kill you, lad. Messy business, killing."

"I'm afraid you'll have to," Vincent said. "I can't allow you to leave with that heart." Squaring away what courage he had, Vincent slowly turned around so that he was staring down the long barrel of Jack's pistol. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the small black chest tucked under the pirate's arm.

The beating was even louder now.

 _Thump, thump_ . . . _thump, thump_ . . .

Then again, perhaps it was his own heart.

"Well, lad," Jack said. "I'm afraid we are at an impasse." He cocked the pistol. "This shot was not meant for you," he said, sounding angry and frustrated at the thought of wasting it. "Let me go, boy."

Slowly, he began to step away, but before Vincent could draw his sword, Commodore Norrington burst into the little clearing. "There you are, Sparrow," he said. "I see you saved me the trouble of finding the heart."

Jack took a calculated step back so that he had one eye on Vincent and the other on Norrington. "And just why do you want this here heart, Commodore? Makes for a strange love token."

"It's my redemption," Norrington said. "With the heart in the Navy's possession, I'll not only regain my title, but have the full powers of Davy Jones himself. There will be no place where I cannot find her."

"I think you've crossed that shaky bridge between love and obsession, Commodore. She didn't love you, mate."

"She's my fiancée!"

"Was," Jack corrected. "Was your fiancée. She left you."

"You can't even say her name," Norrington hissed. "Say her name, Sparrow!"

"Elizabeth. Though, between you and me, she doesn't mind 'Lizzie' if she's in a good mood, if you know what I mean."

Norrington charged with a yell, and Jack had no choice but to either drop the chest or his pistol in order to draw his sword. Vincent made that decision for him. He dove forward, ducking under the swipe of Norrington's blade, and snatched the chest from under Jack's arm. He ran the way that he'd come, the sound of fighting growing strangely more fierce as he neared the beach.

It made sense once he stumbled onto the sand.

The crews of the _Dauntless_ and the _Jolly Roger_ were locked in battle, and though only a few looked up when he charged through the brush, it was enough for them to see the chest under his arm. Vincent spun on his heel and ran back the way he'd come, shouts of "He's got the chest!" and "After him!" echoing behind him.

Bloody hell, Emma was going to get a piece of his mind if he survived this.

* * *

Emma found Killian first, and she used that term loosely.

 _Collided with_ was far more appropriate.

They fell to the ground in a heap, with Killian taking the brunt of the impact with the ground and then once more with her as she landed on top of him. Emma splayed her hands on his chest, tossing her hair out of her eyes as she took in the blood in his beard from what looked like a split lip. "Bloody hell, Swan," he groaned as one hand left her back to cover his side. He pulled his hand away, glanced at the blood, and sighed. "There's a time and a place, darling."

Emma scoffed but didn't immediately move. She did, however, look at his bloody hand and then to his side. "You know, you keep telling me you're this expert swordsman," she said. "I'm starting to think you're overstating things."

"That was strategy," Killian insisted as his eyes looked her over. "Are you alright?"

"Fine."

"Did you get the compass?"

"I'm working on it."

"Bloody hell, Swan. I gave you _one_ task."

"Hey!" she snapped. "It's a little hectic around here. Did you get the key?"

Killian grinned and held up between them. "This key?"

Emma grinned. "Good job, babe."

Killian's brows rose. "Babe?" he repeated. "Why, Swan, have I finally earned a pet name? I'm honored."

She blushed. She had _not_ meant to say that. "Shut up. You're an idiot."

"I'll have you know—"

"Not to interrupt or be indelicate," Vincent's heaving voice startled them, causing Emma to nearly roll off of Killian in surprise, "but is this really the time to flirt?"

Killian's eyes landed on the black chest under Vincent's arm. "You've got it?"

"Aye, Captain. Now, can we go?" He glanced over his shoulder. "Quickly."

Just as he spoke, the sound of thundering feet grew louder until a few men burst through the brush. "Yep," Emma agreed quickly, scrambling to her feet. "Good idea."

"Right behind you, love," Killian said before the three of them were sprinting from the mob. Despite his words, Killian quickly took the lead, slowly working his way diagonally until they were back on the beach, perhaps a few hundred yards down from where they had left their boats.

Killian shouted at the mob behind him. "My men, back to the boats!" he barked.

They were halfway to the boats when Jack stumbled onto the beach, casting a glance over his shoulder, almost in relief, before his senses caught up to him and he got a look at the horde of men charging toward him. "Bloody hell," he mumbled before he started to run, too.

Killian caught up to him first. "I should run you through, Sparrow!" he threatened.

"Yes, well, it happens," Jack parried. "What do you say we forget about it and be friends again?"

"We weren't ever friends!"

"Allies, then! I'm a good ally."

"Why should I trust you?"

Jack pointed at the madness over his shoulder. "Because I trust them less!"

Emma dove toward a boat, shoving it toward the water. "Fine," she said, despite Killian's wide glare. "We don't have time to argue!" she insisted.

Jack grinned and looked at Killian. "See, her? Her I like."

* * *

 **Well, that was an action-packed chapter. Didn't realize it until just now doing some last minute editing. Goodness, the fight scenes! A good flirt. Got to have the flirting.**

 **Next chapter we descend into the Locker! Whoop!**

 **Also next time in _Run, Baby Run_ . . . "You. ****Fucking hell, that's all I want. I just want you, Emma. Damn the consequences. How many times are you going to make me bloody say it?" - Killian**

 **So that's more than one line, but I really wanted to spoil that one because I love it.**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Notes: Hello, hello, helloooo! Sorry this is coming in a wee bit late. Life happened. Adulting happened. It was awful.**

 **On a better note *summons Old Spice guy voice* _I rode a horse_. Yep, my Dad finally got his horses, so I drove my happy ass down to the farm and went for a ride. The horse's (one of them anyway) is named Vegas and he's a precious love muffin and I adore him. So yay.**

 **But! We have some fun action going on here, so let's get to it.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Disney or its characters. Or a horse. But my Dad does. *squee***

* * *

Chapter 16

As soon as Killian stepped onto the _Jolly Roger_ , he began shouting orders. "Haul anchor! Get ready to make way! Quickly, lads!" He was in constant motion as he stalked across the deck, Emma beside him as Jack went to the helm. "Take the chest," he told Emma, lowering his voice though it did very little to escape the crew's notice. Everyone was sneaking a peak at the chest under Vincent's arm. "Place it in the cabin. Somewhere safe."

Emma nodded, smiling at Vincent as he handed it over, "Thank you."

He huffed. "You owe me a drink. No, you owe me three."

She laughed. "Three, it is."

Holding the chest in both hands, Emma went down to the Captain's quarters—her quarters, his quarters, _their_ quarters, she didn't know if she wanted a label yet—pondering where she might hide the chest. She understood why Killian had asked this of her. He knew every nook and cranny of his quarters, yet everyone saw things differently, and what she might consider a good hiding place might escape Killian's notice entirely. Of course, this was exactly why Killian had asked her to hide the heart.

Even he didn't want to know where the heart was, and though the weight of the trust he had placed in her sat heavily on her shoulders, there was a delighted warmth that settled in her chest. Scanning the room, she automatically ruled out the wardrobe, the cupboard, and the bookshelves. Under the bed just seemed cliché, and there was no stopping the chest from sliding across the floor with each roll of the ship. Even the safe was pointless. Anyone could pick a lock.

So she settled on his desk.

Emma sat in his chair and examined the drawers on either side. The bottom-most drawers were the deepest, and knowing Killian as she did, she knew one if not both had false bottoms. Curiously, she opened the one to her right. It was filled with papers, neatly rolled and tied together, and she rolled her eyes at his tidiness. It was strangely cute.

Carefully, she took out the papers and set them on top of the desk. Tapping the bottom of the drawer, she heard the answering echo with a hint of smugness. She felt around the drawer, fingertips searching for a latch or a pressure spring, finally finding the latter in the back. The drawer opened, revealing a little space just the perfect size for the chest.

She gently moved aside the few baubles that were already present—a gorgeous opal pendant, a flask of rum, and a carved wooden horse the size of a chess piece—before she placed the chest into the drawer. It was a snug fit, which she liked. It would be harder to hear the hollowed echo of the drawer if anyone started tapping around.

She'd just finished rearranging the drawer, exactly as she'd found it, when she heard it.

 _Thump, thump . . . thump, thump_ . . .

Immediately she had the urge to undo all her work and open the chest. It was almost a compulsion, and she wondered if it was magic, if the chest _wanted_ to be opened. Her fingers itched to touch it. She closed her hand into a fist and shook herself.

Get out. Leave it alone.

If she seemed to gulp fresh air when she appeared on deck, no one questioned it. The air was crisp against her face, the sails straining as the wind propelled them over the waves. She quickly climbed the stairs to the helm, her eyes finding the _Dauntless_ chasing after them. Jack had out his compass while Killian stood at the wheel, still shouting orders.

She came to stand between the two men as she looked back once again at the _Dauntless_. "Can we outrun them?" she asked.

"Oh, just you watch me, love," Killian said with a sharp grin.

Jack extended his spyglass. "Looks like Barbosa made it back to the ship," he said as he watched the crew of the _Dauntless_ scurry around on deck. "Bugger."

"And Norrington?" Emma asked.

"Also, unfortunately, present."

"You know, it's funny. No one seems to like you, Jack."

"Alas, tis the price I pay for being clever."

Emma hummed. "Right."

They sailed on, nearly flying atop the waves until the _Dauntless_ was a mere speck in the distance. Only then did Killian let the men rest. It was nearing dark, everyone was exhausted, yet he did not dismiss them below. Instead, he looked at Emma, his eyes tired but serious, as he said, "Mr. Smee! Take the wheel for a moment."

Smee scurried up to the helm with a squeaking, "Yes, sir, Captain" even as he cast an anxious eye at Jack, who only wiggled his fingers in a childish wave.

Emma thought she was the only one who saw just how brightly the Captain's dark eyes danced when Smee looked completely befuddled.

"Swan," her attention was drawn back to Killian, "perhaps we could take our conversation below?"

There was still that serious glint in his eye, yet there was something anxious in his voice that made her steps heavy and reluctant as she followed him to his quarters. They stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, Killian on one side of his desk while she stood on the other. He didn't immediately speak, which only made the sinking feeling in her stomach worse.

The only sound in the room was the steady, quiet beat of Davy Jones's heart.

 _Thump, thump . . . thump, thump . . . thump, thump_ . . .

God, that sound was going to drive her mad.

"Killian?" Her voice hovered hesitantly in the air. "What is it?"

Their brief lightness they'd shared on the island had only left more tension between them, a tension that Emma suddenly felt acutely since it was entirely her doing. She was the one that had pushed, and he had pulled away. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him. Tense shoulders. Flexing fist. That steady tick in his jaw. All signs pointed to anger.

She knew it was nerves.

Finally he looked up and said, "Even under the best of conditions, portal-travel is a risk. I can't chance dropping anchor for the night with the _Dauntless_ on our tail, yet I also can't chance traveling through the portal in darkness." He glanced out the window at the fading sun. "If we are to venture into the Locker, it has to be now."

Emma nodded slowly. "Okay, I still don't see the problem. Let's just go."

"It's not that simple, love." Killian sighed before fixing her with a steady look. His next words came out bluntly. "The Locker is another realm. In order to get there, we need a magic bean."

It took a few seconds before it clicked, and then Emma's eyes widened slightly and her mouth fell open. "Oh," she said. "You need my bean, the one the Apprentice gave me."

"I'm sorry, love. I'm so, so sorry. I was too distracted by Jones's threat that I failed to think ahead, and now I'm . . . I'm forcing you to make a decision that should have been yours entirely."

Emma stared at him. "That's my only way back," she said, and though nothing in her voice hinted that she was upset, Killian flinched. "To my world."

He hung his head. "Aye."

"I don't—"

"If you wish to use it to return to your world, I'll not stop you," he said honestly. "I'll not pretend that letting you go is what I want, but I will assist you, just as I promised you in that crowded tavern in Queen's Port. I am a man of my word, Swan."

"You'd let me go?"

"Aye."

"Just like that?"

"If it be your wish."

Emma felt so much in that moment that she felt nothing at all. She was frustrated. Because he just had to do this, didn't he? He just had to be _noble_ , like some damn white knight, putting her first. Always her. _Her_ wants, _her_ desires, _her_ wishes. His own desires were secondary to a point that they were seemingly nonexistent, and that just wasn't right or at all realistic. He was a goddamn pirate, for Christ's sake.

And oh, she was angry, too. Angry that this decision was hers to make. Angry at Killian for forcing her hand, at Davy Jones for getting them into this mess, angry at herself for not immediately knowing her answer. Because she should know. And perhaps, perhaps she did, in her heart.

But did that make it easier? Of course not. Because with that knowledge came more feelings, feelings that she had never felt comfortable with and known all too little in her life. Feelings of warmth and safety and longing. That soft sort of tenderness that simply _ached_. It felt like a knot in her chest that was already swollen with emotion because Killian Jones was giving her a choice. It was hers. It would always be hers. And that meant everything to her. So little in her life had been her choice.

All of these feelings mixed and swelled within her until she felt completely numb to any of it. So she simply stared at Killian for the longest time as her brain mechanically flip-flopped between _yes_ and _no_ , _stay_ or _go_. And the longer that she stared at him, that he stared back at her with those big blue eyes of his that were just as troubled and torn as she imagined her own . . . Emma's numbness faded into a strange, blazing need.

She needed to know one thing.

"What do you want?" she asked.

He blinked. "Swan, it's your—"

"What do _you_ want?" she repeated, taking a step toward him. When he abruptly sealed his lips, as if to hold in his answer, something in her snapped. There was a war in his eyes as he watched her, something dark lurking beneath, and Emma wanted to let it out. She needed to know. "You're a goddamn pirate, Killian Jones," she snapped, advancing on him. "What do you _want_?"

In answer, his hands wrapped around her upper arms in a bruising grip, and he tugged her forward until she was pressed against him harder than she'd ever been. She only had time to marvel at the feeling for one small second before his lips claimed hers. He set a punishing pace that was all heat, wonderful, possessive, consuming heat. His hands released her arms. One fisted in her hair while the other dared to squeeze her ass to bring her even closer.

Everything about the kiss said _mine_.

"You." His voice was rough and low, his forehead pressing harshly against hers. "Fucking hell, that's all I want. I just want you, Emma. Damn the consequences. How many times are you going to make me bloody say it?"

And she smiled faintly, her thumb caressing the scar on his cheek. "There's the pirate I met in that tavern," she said before she pulled away from him, turned her back, and crossed the room to his chest at the foot of the bed.

She lifted the lid. Her red leather jacket sat right on top, and she unfolded it in her lap, her fingers rubbing at the soft, familiar material. She unzipped the left pocket and found the magic bean right where she'd left it. It sparkled even in the faint light, and her fingers felt warm where she touched it.

Holding it in her fist, she walked back to Killian and then held out her hand, palm up. "We better hurry," she said, her voice still slightly breathless from their kiss. Or maybe it was because she knew exactly what this meant. "We've got someplace to be."

Killian didn't even look at the bean. He stared into her eyes, searching. Gone was the possessive pirate. That darkness was sequestered once again, but Emma didn't mind. Not right in that moment. She needed a moment with just plain Killian, too.

He swallowed. "We, love?"

"Yeah." She tried smiling and succeeded sheepishly with a shrug. "I mean, we do make a damn good team."

"You're staying."

She nodded. "Yeah," she said softly. "I am."

"With me."

"With you."

This time when he kissed her it was soft, almost apologetic for the brutal way he'd pillaged her lips earlier, but Emma took the kiss just as greedily, loving the soft way he cradled her head just as much as when he'd been pulling her hair. "You're more than I deserve," he said softly.

She smiled faintly to hide how his words made her insides squirm. "That's debatable," she said before stepping back and offering the bean once again. "C'mon. Let's do this."

The sun was just beginning to set when they emerged on deck. Killian immediately began to give orders. "Alright, lads! Prepare to go through a portal! Keep her trim!"

Emma glanced at him. "So, we're just going in guns blazing?"

"If I'm correctly guessing your meaning, yes."

"Go big or go home," she muttered as a brief flicker of nerves flared to life in her stomach. Her grip on the bean tightened. "What do I do?"

Killian nearly asked, just once more, if this was truly what she wanted, but he swallowed the words. Instead he nodded slightly toward the bow. "Think of where you wish to go, and then throw it. The magic will do the rest."

Emma paused. "That's it?"

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know. Magic words? That's how the movies go."

"Swan, I'm beginning to think that your _movies_ leave much to be desired when it comes to reality."

"Reality, right," she muttered as she rolled the bean between her fingers. "Because this is reality. Portals and hearts in boxes."

Killian said nothing, and so Emma silently told herself to get a grip before she strode to the bow. The bean felt heavy in her hand as she held it in her fist, terrified that she might squeeze too tightly and crush it. Could it be crushed?

Alright, this was happening. She was doing this. Dear god, she was really doing this.

Before she could convince herself that she was making a mistake, Emma Swan—former resident and nonbeliever of the Land Without Magic—made her choice.

She threw the bean.

* * *

As soon as the bean touched the water, a whirlpool swirled to life, seeming to grow in size as the _Jolly Roger_ approached. Emma stared in shock, that stubborn part of her still unable to comprehend that this—magic, pirates, the Enchanted Forest, Davy Jones—was real. She stared until the ship began to lurch, reminding her of the first big hill of a rollercoaster. It was all _click, click, click_ until _boom_ , down you go.

Which, if Emma were forced to describe the experience, would be her definition of what it was like to travel through a portal.

She clung to the rigging with both hands, hugging the thick lines to her chest as she felt her stomach drop as the entire fucking ship _dropped_. There was that beautiful moment when they tipped, like the top of a water slide where you still felt like you had some traction, but then the bottom fell out and it was just _down, down, down_.

Wind beat her face. She even felt her feet lift off the deck. Some of the men were yelling curses. A few, though, one of which she was willing to bet was old Ace, let out a yodel of delight. For her part, she gritted her teeth, closed her eyes, and waited for it to be over.

Their landing was rough and for a moment Emma had to wonder how they all weren't just pieces of driftwood. She looked up in time to see the portal close in a burnt orange sky, spinning away like a top. God, they'd really done it.

"Everyone alright?"

She didn't even notice until then that Killian had stayed with her on deck, with his crew, rather than steer them into the portal. She looked up at the helm where Jack stood behind the wheel, an arm resting between the spokes lazily as Smee hyperventilated into his hat as he leaned against the rail. Jack took off his hat and gave a small, sweeping bow when he caught her eye.

She had to smirk.

Captain Jack Sparrow, indeed.

"Swan?" Killian touched her arm. "In one piece?"

She looked down at herself. "Looks like it."

"Well, welcome to Davy Jones's Locker."

* * *

 **Got to love Jack.**

 **And Killian.**

 **And Emma.**

 **Let's just love them all, shall we?**

 **Alrighty, let's see what trouble our heroes can find, hmm? Next time in _Run, Baby Run_ . . . "Since the only way I know to contact him [Davy Jones] is by quite literally killing the messenger, who do you nominate?" - Killian**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Notes: Hey y'all will have to forgive me for the late update. Again. I'm prepping for a trip to Vegas and packing is a bitch.**

 **If there are mistakes in this chapter, pardon me. No time to edit!**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Chapter 17

The Locker was not at all the Hell that sailors were taught to fear. The sky was an endless blue until it reached the horizon where the edges appeared to melt into a green that mirrored the sea. The sea itself was calm with a gentle breeze. It was the type of weather that sailors coveted. Because yes, while the lust for treasure and adventure governed a large part of a pirate's heart, his true love would always be the sea, the tempting mistress that she was, and the beauty of a calm sail under a bright sky was beyond price.

If this was the afterlife that awaited him, Killian wasn't worried in the slightest.

He stood at the helm, one hand on his belt, the other on the wheel. Jack was next to him, although the older Captain tapped restlessly at his compass, flicking it and then once banging it against the rail. "Come on, you blasted thing," he hissed. "Work."

Killian raised an eyebrow. "Just what to you wish to find?"

"My ship. Jones took it."

"Why?"

Jack sighed in irritation. "My father was a pirate. I didn't want to be him. Joined the Navy. Navy wanted me to trade slaves. I set them free. They burned my ship with me on it. Didn't want to die. Made a deal with Jones. Thirteen years or a hundred souls. I chose the latter." His words were quick, his tone clipped, almost bored. He smiled sarcastically. "Thirteen years were up. I welshed. Jones took the _Pearl_. Savvy?"

"You thought you could leverage the heart for her."

"Aye." Jack looked down at his compass. "And now I'm here, and _I can't find my ship_."

The dial continued to spin restlessly, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. Killian cocked an eyebrow. "Perhaps you want something else more?"

Jack looked away, troubled. "Perhaps."

"Allow me to try, then," Killian said, offering a hand. "I may yet have better luck."

Seeing no real alternative, Jack handed over the compass, and felt a certain amount of satisfaction and relief when the dial continued to swing. Killian frowned before his gaze swept the deck. Emma sat on the rail next to Vincent, the two looking thick as thieves. He could see her smile even from the quarterdeck.

"Swan!" he called. "Come up here, would you, lass?"

Emma slid off the rail, landing lithely on her feet even as the ship lurched, a little detail that only made Killian's heart clench. He remembered the first weeks of their first voyage, remembered smirking to himself when he heard her curse after losing her footing when the ship rolled. Seeing her now, so comfortable, only made the fact that she'd chosen to stay that much sweeter.

Emma glanced between Killian and Jack. "What's up?"

Killian handed her the compass. "See what you make of it," he said.

Frowning, she took the compass in her hands. The dial seemed to stutter, and Jack tensed in anticipation, before his shoulders fell a second later when the dial once more began to aimlessly twirl. "Damn," he cursed.

"Sorry." Emma handed the device back to Jack. "Why isn't it working?"

Killian looked out at the waves. "Perhaps it's the Locker. The sea here is endless, therefore our direction needn't matter."

"What are we looking for?" she asked. "Jones?"

"I have a feeling that he'll find us. No, Jack was hoping to find the _Pearl_."

Emma's brows rose as she stared at the endless sea. "Good luck, then."

"Your optimism is overwhelming, Miss Swan."

She flushed. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it, lass. I'll be reunited with her again."

They sailed until night fell, and what a sight was the sunset. The sky bled slowly from pink to orange to a deep, blood red that left purple reflections on the water. Emma and Killian met at the helm by unspoken, subconscious agreement. It was neutral ground.

Killian was the one to make the first move. He took her hand in his, and Emma waited for him to kiss it as he usually did, only to frown as he merely held it between them, studying it, his thumb sweeping occasionally across her knuckles. They stood that way in silence, her hand in his, until Emma opened her palm to twine their fingers. Killian stared at their hands harder.

"I've always admired your hands, Swan," he said eventually. "I don't know about your land, but here, a man knows a lot about a woman by her hands." Unlacing their hands but not letting go completely, he ran his thumb along the pad of her palm. "I knew from the moment I took your hand that you were a strong woman," he brushed against her calluses, "that you were no stranger to the world and its hardships. They were paler then," he added. "Have you noticed?" Turning her hand over, he swept his thumb over the dusting of freckles that occasionally dotted her now lightly tanned skin. "They've changed."

Emma reflexively wanted to close her fingers and take her hand back. Her muscles tensed. "Is that a bad thing?"

Killian did kiss her hand then. "No, love," he said quietly. "Not at all. It's only that when I think of it, when I think of what your hands have done since meeting me, that I wonder . . ."

"Wonder, what?"

He swallowed. "If it's worth it." Emma wanted to argue. Her eyes flared and her hand tightened in his hold, but he silently squeezed her hand to halt her words. "These hands have now killed because of me," he said. "They've acted without your consent, they've made you question yourself, and it's my fault."

"You asked me the other day why I desired to shield you from the darker aspects of myself, and I was truthful. I do not wish for you to change because of me, to become something that you fear or distrust because of my influence. I never want you to look at your hands and feel anything except pride. Darling, you're the brightest light in my life." He finally tore his gaze from hers, eyes falling once more to their hands, and Emma was grateful. She needed a moment to process, but Killian didn't give her one. His voice was low and shy as he admitted, "But I fear that one day, my darkness will snuff out some of that light. I fear that you'll hate me for it."

Emma stared at him with a mix of wonder and disbelief. "You think I'll run," she said. "You think that if you show me your darkness that I'll leave."

"Everyone does, Swan," he said brokenly, and Emma suddenly had a vision of a scared little boy with the brightest blue eyes waking up alone to a cold bunk on a mean ship. It wasn't so different from a scared little girl with sea green eyes waking up alone in squeaky bed in a lonely home.

 _You and I, we understand each other._

She knew what she needed to say, and the weight of it, of what it meant—for her, for him, for _them_ —sat heavily on her tongue. But she needed to say it. No allusions, no hints. She couldn't rely on him to hear what she couldn't say. Not this time. This time, she needed to say it.

Emma still hesitated.

Because what she needed to say sounded oddly like _Tallahassee_ in her mind, and she had sworn that she'd never say anything like that again, never want for something like that again, never trust anyone for something like that again. Everything was just happening so fast. If she stopped to think of it for too long, she would undoubtedly run because stuff like this _just didn't happen_.

People didn't fall through time and land in a magical realm. They didn't meet a handsome, dangerous stranger on some quest to return home, and they certainly didn't sail away into the sunset with that stranger because he asked, because he was unlike anyone she had ever met, because he made her feel things she'd sworn never to feel again. It. Just. Didn't. Happen.

But it did. It _had_.

And of all people, it had happened to _her_.

"I . . ." she swallowed, "Killian . . ."

Part of her wanted him to interrupt, to give her an out, but when he only stared at her and patiently waited for her to sort herself out, even though she _knew_ he was terrified of what she might say, she was even more grateful that he kept quiet. "You don't have to worry about me," she said finally. "I'm not going anywhere. I want to . . . I want _you_. And you're a _pirate_. I know what that means, and I don't care."

Killian's eyes shone tentatively with hope, and Emma found the courage to lace their fingers together once again while her other hand gently ran through his hair. It was softer than hers, and it wasn't at all fair, but she loved it. "Don't get me wrong, I like this you," she said with a blush. "The sweet one who sings to me and kisses my hand and says all these wonderful things that no one's ever said to me before." She smiled when she spotted the slight pink color in his cheeks. _Good_. "But," her nails scraped against his scalp, "I like Captain Jones, too."

"I want _you_ , Killian," she said honestly. "Gentleman and pirate."

He smirked half-heartedly, too overwhelmed to be as audacious as usual. "I'm always a gentlemen," he said.

Emma rolled her eyes, using their joined hands to pull him forward. "You're an idiot," she murmured as she tilted her head up, her forehead resting briefly against his.

Killian closed his eyes. "Aye," he agreed before abruptly pulling her close and capturing Emma's lips in a kiss that literally made her toes curl.

 _Pirate_.

* * *

They sailed aimlessly for three days before they saw land, and it was all there was to see. It was as if the ocean had suddenly dried up, leaving the wreckage of dozens of vessels to wither away on the arid sand. Jack didn't have to stare to know that the _Pearl_ was not one of them. He knew at a glance, yet the _Pearl's_ absence did nothing to assuage him. If anything at all, it made him that much more anxious.

Because if she wasn't here, then where the devil was she?

Killian scoured the beach with a different idea in mind. All those ships just laid to waste . . . truly it was tragic, and the sailor in him lamented the loss . . . but he'd be a terrible pirate if he passed up _this_ opportunity. So he gave the order to drop anchor and deploy the longboats. They were going to shore.

He snuck a glance at Emma as he rowed them to shore. She looked radiant in the midmorning sun. Her hair shone like finely spun gold and her eyes were alight with curiosity as she studied the beached ships that dotted the coastline. She wore one of his shirts again, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a brown leather vest that hugged her waist like he wished his hands would.

With her hair tied back and her kohl-lined eyes, she looked more like a pirate than ever.

It was terribly attractive.

He'd nearly dragged her back into his quarters when she'd appeared on deck with her eyes lined in black to combat the bright sun. It was a practical solution, yes, but gods, did it have to make her look so enticing? There was only so much even a gentleman could take.

As if she sensed the direction of his thoughts (or perhaps merely noticed his stare) she smirked at him like the nymph he sometimes suspected she was, and said, "So, Captain"—how he loved it when she called him by his title—"what's the plan?"

"I have many plans, love," he said. Currently the majority of them involved the two of them, a bottle of rum, and considerably fewer clothes. "You'll have to be more specific."

She rolled her eyes. "What are we doing here?" she asked. "Are we honestly just going to wait around for your undead grandfather to show up?"

"If you have a suggestion, I'm all ears, Swan," he retorted lightly. "Since the only way I know to contact him is by quite literally killing the messenger, who do you nominate? Personally, I'd go with Bellamy."

Emma blinked, knowing in her gut that despite his playful tone, there was an undercurrent of deadly sincerity, and while she was glad that he wasn't holding himself back for her sake any longer, she felt the slightest bit of hesitation. "I think we can afford to wait a few days," she said dryly, even as she silently questioned just what she'd gotten herself into when it came to Killian Jones.

She hadn't lied last night. She cared for both man and pirate. Truthfully, in her mind, they were one and the same. Different layers of the same man. Of course, that didn't excuse his actions. That didn't place him above judgement. And she wondered just what she would do when the day inevitably came when he would test her ability to stay true to her word . . . when he killed out of anger or vengeance or cheated some hapless person out of spite. . . all things that she knew he had done and would do again . . .

Emma wasn't so much worried about what it would say about her character whatever she decided. What worried her, terrified her, really, was _why_ it didn't matter. And in her heart she already knew. It was because she was Emma Swan, and he was Killian Jones, and she, he, _they_ were . . . something, something that she couldn't even define.

 _Darling, you're the brightest light in my life._

 _I want_ you _, Killian._

They reached the shore in short order, and Killian hopped out, boots splashing in the surf, as he tugged the boat onto the beach. He offered her a hand as she stepped onto the sand, and Emma felt that faint, annoying schoolgirl flicker in her stomach when he didn't let go. She bit her cheek in order to squash her smile.

"So, what do you say, love?" he asked as they walked inland. "Left," he pointed to a weathered warship that had been broken in half, "or right?"

The ship immediately to the right waved a shredded Jolly Roger, and she started toward it. "Right," she said.

"Excellent choice, Swan."

Emma glanced behind them as they walked. The crew seemed to splinter in all directions, no more than three men going to one ship. She noticed Jack was the last to pick a direction, and instead of heading toward the ships, he began to walk straight inland. She watched him with a frown. "I don't know what he wants," she said. "Jack, I mean."

Killian followed her gaze with a faint smile. "I have a few ideas," he said.

"Care to share?"

"What do your movies tell you about Elizabeth Swann?"

"Governor's daughter. She was supposed to marry Norrington, but Barbosa kidnapped her because she had this medallion from this cursed treasure that made him a skeleton guy in the moonlight—"

"Curse?" Killian interrupted. "You mean to say that he couldn't die?"

Emma blinked. "Yeah."

"He must still be under that curse then."

"How do you know?"

"Because I killed him, and he didn't die."

"Weird how that actually makes sense."

Killian smiled slightly. "What more of Miss Swann, Swan?"

"That was horrible," she muttered with an eye roll, but shrugged, and added, "She was rescued by Will and Jack. They broke the curse, Jack killed Barbosa, and then Elizabeth called off her engagement to Norrington to be with Will. That's it."

"And now I shall tell you what I know," Killian said as they approached the ship. He gestured for her to begin climbing the rungs on the side of the ship. "After you, love."

Emma raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "Right," she said, though she nonetheless began to climb. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, pirate."

Killian smiled as he followed after her, his eyes lingering over her shapely arse, as he said, "I've no idea what you mean, darling."

"You were going to tell me about Elizabeth."

"Of course," he agreed, his eyes momentarily straying to check their surroundings. "You see, Elizabeth Swann was the Governor's daughter. Aye, that much is true. But what your movie seems to have forgotten, is that she did not go on some grand adventure before breaking off her marriage to the Commodore. Instead, she left him at the altar, never to be seen again."

Emma frowned. "Really?"

"Aye, but there are rumors."

"You pirates sure do like to gossip."

"We pirates thrive on gossip and stories, Swan," he said.

"And how do you know what's the truth?"

"That's the fun of it, love."

"So those rumors about Elizabeth, what did they say?"

"Oh, well, some were the usual fare. Cold feet. Loved another. But I always heard one explanation that sounded clearer to my ears."

"And what explanation was that?"

"That she had met a pirate to be executed, only to find something redeemable in him and in turn helped him escape. They fell in love, and she, not wanting to be confined to a life of an aristocrat, ran away with him."

"That's . . . romantic."

"Aye. The Commodore never believed the rumors, insisted that she had been kidnapped, and so set out to find her."

Emma climbed over the rail with a huff and brushed the grime from her hands. "And what do you think?"

"I think," Killian said as he climbed over the rail and take her hand, pulling her close, "I think that she became a pirate because she wanted to be free."

"You think the pirate she ran away with was Jack," she said.

"It would fit with what I know of him."

"I can't believe Norrington is still looking for her. Surely he knows?"

"Love can make a man believe in anything, Swan. Now," he abruptly stepped away from her, though in the next second he began to pull her along with him as he went straight for the captain's quarters, "let's see just what treasures may await us."

Emma followed behind him with a small, amused smile as he broke through the door with a sharp kick. He turned to her, a boyish grin on his face, as if he wanted her to comment on his prowess, but she only raised what she hoped was an unimpressed eyebrow before turning away from him to examine the cabin. She missed Killian's pout.

Emma began opening drawers, tossing aside clothes and focusing on trinkets. She had no intention of taking anything, yet she had always been an innately curious person, and so it was with great interest that she searched each nook and cranny of the cabin, finding interesting maps that she set aside for Killian and other little trinkets and baubles that were appropriately shiny or sparkly. She ran her fingers over the few book titles she found, noting with some amusement that this unknown captain and Killian shared the same taste. She picked up some star charts, thinking that he might like them, only to turn to him and immediately laugh.

"What?" Killian said. "I think I look even more charming and devilishly handsome than usual."

Emma snorted and pressed her lips together in order not to laugh. Killian had raided the captain's wardrobe. Obviously, there had been more than one woman to share the quarters, as Killian had strings of pearls around his neck, a feather hat on his head, and a delicate fan in his hand that he seemed to be absently waving.

"Oh, yeah," Emma agreed as she crossed the room to fiddle with the pearls around his neck. "Very sexy." She reached up to flick the peacock feather in his hat.

"I do hope you're not making fun of me, Swan," he threatened lightly, tossing the fan on the desk behind her and then placing a hand on her hip to pull her close. "Because if you are, I'll be forced to punish you. A Captain can't afford to deal with such insolence among his crew."

"I didn't know I was part of the crew," Emma said as she boldly looped her arms around his neck. Her genuine smile at the ridiculous hat on his head kept her from showing just how unsure of herself she still felt. This was still so _new_. "All you did was ask me to sail away with you."

Killian grinned at the reminder as he arched an arrogant eyebrow. "Is that so, love?" His hands locked against the small of her back, pressing her against him. "Didn't you know that every person aboard my ship has their place?" His voice dipped lower as his eyes, while teasing, darkened.

Emma waited for him to kiss her, but he didn't move. He merely stayed a breath's away from her lips, arrogantly waiting for her to cave. She promptly slid her fingers into his hair, letting her nails scrape lightly against his scalp. His eyes fluttered. "I don't remember you ever assigning me a place . . . Captain."

Killian let his eyes close, arms tightening around her. Maddening woman! He'd started this game, and he intended to win, godsdammit. "Hmm," he hummed, and Emma felt the sound vibrate against his chest that was so firmly pressed to hers. "Well, darling, let us fix this error," he murmured, thoughtfully leaning in to let his lips skim her throat. "How about . . . mistress?" Emma yanked on his hair, but he only chuckled. "That only leaves _wench_ , Swan."

Emma tried to pull away with a huff, and though he let her take a step back, he refused to let go of her completely. "Try again, buddy," she said with a sniff. "We may have met in a tavern, but I'm not your wench."

Killian pretended to think. "There's really only one other option then, love," he said, tugging her closer once again, and smiling when her hands settled on his shoulders. He had a feeling it was less an act of affection, and more a warning that she might strangle him. He rested his forehead against hers anyway. "You must be my first mate," he said.

Emma raised her eyebrows. "What about Smee?"

"He'll get over it."

She laughed when he kissed her.

They went from ship to ship, gathering treasure, and Emma felt a strange child-like glee that she'd been robbed of as a child. It was so terribly fun to explore each ship and find strange, new things. She cared little for silver and gold, though she smirked when Killian shove handfuls of coins into his pockets. Emma focused on smaller things, earthier things that would last, like maps and books and a dusty bottle of wine.

It surprised her that it didn't feel like stealing. It was discovery. It was an expedition. It wasn't about screwing over the system that had screwed her. It wasn't about rebellion. It was about adventure.

And god, was it just _fun_.

"I can't believe you're taking that," she laughed as Killian tossed the gold dress over his shoulder, petticoats and all. "Unless you've got a secret I should know about."

"I'll have you know, Swan, that I look stunning in gold."

"Killian."

"You never know, love. One day, you might need a dress."

"Because a dress is obviously practical."

"Quite."

"For piracy."

"Sometimes."

"You're such an idiot. You just want to see me in it."

Killian spun to look at her, eyes wide, brows raised innocently. "Is that an offer?"

She hummed as she passed him. "Maybe," she offered slyly before quickly turning away before he could see the flush to her cheeks.

"Oi, get back here, you minx."

An arm snaked around her waist. The many necklaces around his neck swung heavily, clicking together as he spun around in front of her, and the dress on his shoulder twirling out like a cape. He still had the damn feather hat on his head. "What are you gonna do, pirate?" she dared.

"I'm gonna do what any self-respecting pirate does, Swan," he said. "I'm going to take what's mine."

Emma's heart had just enough time to flutter in anticipation and for her hands to grab Killian's collar when Jack interrupted. "So sorry to interrupt," he said as he swaggered forward, hand raised in apology. "I just thought I'd make a wee little suggestion."

Killian cocked an eyebrow. "And what suggestion would that be?" he asked wryly, frustration barely contained.

Jack grinned knowingly before pointing past all the shipwrecks. "I think we should journey further inland."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"There's no way to tell if the Pearl is there."

"There's no way to tell if she isn't unless we mosey over ourselves and have a look."

Emma found it hard to take either of them seriously, considering that Jack, much like Killian, wore his spoils, which included a golden crown that sat crookedly atop his head. The crown combined with Killian's feathered hat made it difficult to keep a straight face as she watched the two captains glare at each other.

Yet as she looked at Jack, she thought about what Killian had told her earlier. Elizabeth. And it struck her then that Jack always talked about finding _her_ , about reuniting with _her_ , and while she knew it could easily refer to the Pearl, she couldn't help but wonder if maybe . . . maybe he wasn't here for just his ship.

Snippets of his conversation with Norrington ran through her mind.

" _Where's Elizabeth?"_

" _Not here . . ."_

"Okay," she said, causing both Killian and Jack to pause midsentence and stare at her in surprise. She focused on Jack. "We'll look. Tomorrow."

"We will?" Killian questioned. "Just what makes you say that, Swan?"

"I'm first mate," she said simply. "I get some say. I say we look for the Pearl. No matter how he went about it, Jack helped us get the heart, and we owe him."

Jack nodded. "She has a point, mate," he said, pointing at Emma.

Killian stared at her for a long moment, questioning eyebrow arched just shy of condescending, as he said, "So it would seem." Emma didn't blink under his gaze. She only stared steadily back, confident and trusting and maybe just a bit smug. He hated that he found it more attractive than annoying. Terribly inconvenient, that. "We'll set out tomorrow," he said, finally glancing at Jack. "But we'll only search for a day. The Locker is not some place where I'm keen to linger."

"Of course not," Jack agreed. "Very wise of you."

Emma scanned the beach. "Looks like everyone else is ready to head back to the ship," she said, spotting Vincent lugging what she thought was an entire trunk behind him, while Bee chased after someone with a goblet raised like a weapon. "And maybe we should make sure no one kills each other."

Both Killian and Jack turned just in time to see Bee tackle a man to a ground and wrestle some jewel from his grasp. Emma could see it wink in the fading sunlight. "I think the lass is onto something," Jack said.

Killian's jaw flexed. "If I wanted your commentary, Sparrow, I would ask for it."

"Apologies. It just looks a bit . . . chaotic."

"Anything else you'd like to add?"

". . . nice hat."

Emma snorted, breaking the tension completely, and causing both men to once again look at her. Killian eyed her like she'd betrayed him while Jack looked like he'd gained an ally. She rolled her eyes at the both of them. "I'm going to the boats. If neither of you are there in ten minutes, I'm rowing back by myself."

Ten minutes later, everyone was rowing back to the Jolly, and Killian's hat was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

 **Thanks folks.**

 **See you Friday**

 **-AC**


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Notes: Alrighty, here we are! A few things before we start: 1) Las Vegas is an exhausting city for an introvert, and I must be a special kind of masochist because I went to a western-themed bar on the strip during a karaoke night (don't wanna talk about it); 2) Also on a Vegas note, boobs. Boobs everywhere.; 3) I still had fun; 4) This chapter is where I really play with canon from a POTC POV, don't shoot me; 5) I like it, so it stays.**

 **6) I honesty got excited about this numbered list and want to keep going . . .**

 **7) Time for a disclaimer.**

 **8) (Disclaimer) I don't own it. No money is made. Pity. I lost enough in Vegas.**

 **P.S.**

 **9) WHY ARE THERE PENNY SLOT MACHINES. DO YOU WANT ALL MY MONEY.**

* * *

Chapter 18

Elizabeth Swann had been in the Locker for one year, three months, and twenty-eight days.

When she had first arrived in the Locker, she'd thought it was a trick. One second she'd on the _Pearl_ with Jack and Davy Jones, making a deal, and then in the next, she was once again on the _Pearl_ but alone, sailing an endless sea. Gorgeous weather. Bright sun. Good wind. Excellent for a sail.

For the first two hundred and eighty-three days, she sailed. She sailed and sailed and sailed and yet it never changed. She woke up to the same sun, the same sky, the same wind. Every day, over and over and over.

When she had finally spotted land, she'd cried in relief and laughed with glee.

Only the _Pearl_ didn't stop. Even when she dropped anchor, the ship continued to sail. It sailed right onto the sand, and only then did it stop. Elizabeth had spent the next one hundred and eight days trying to dig herself out, to create a small slip to let the _Pearl_ drift back into the sea. She dug with nothing but her hands until her skin was raw and bleeding from the hot sand.

When she would wake the next day, all her work would be washed away, and she would start over once again.

 _Dig, dig, dig, dig . . . got to get out, got to get out . . . get out, get out, get out . . . out, out, out, out . . ._

For the last ninety-two days, Elizabeth Swann had sat in the rum cellar of the _Pearl_ , an empty bottle in her hand (all the bottles were empty, she'd checked) and thought of only one thing: Jack Sparrow.

 _Captain_ , she corrected. _Captain_ Jack Sparrow.

She giggled.

Some days she was sad when she thought of him. She wondered where he was without the _Pearl_. She hoped that he was alright. She wanted him to be alright. This was all for him, after all.

Some days she was angry. Some days she broke every empty bottle of rum and screamed at him. It was his fault she was here. His damn fault, _his_ choice, _his_ ship, _his_ bloody rotten soul.

Other days she felt nothing, and those were her favorite days.

She would lay on deck and stare at the sky, that cloudless, seamless, blameless blue sky, and she would remember without feeling. Pictures played in her mind's eye. Jack was there a lot. She saw him in his cell in Port Royal, smirking and flirting with her as though he had no fear of death. She saw him the night before he was meant to hang as she unlocked his cell and led him past the guard she had knocked out with a candlestick. She saw him in the days afterward, in stolen moments when he would suddenly be at her side as she strolled through town after weeks of being gone. She saw him the day that she'd blackmailed him to sail away with her on the _Pearl_.

She'd never forget the way he'd laughed.

She saw the many days after that first sail, the days full of adventure to faraway places, forgotten places. Days full of the spray of the sea on her face, the rain in her eyes as she clung to the wheel in the middle of a storm. Days where she looked out at the sea and saw endless possibilities.

She saw freedom.

An angry day would always follow a nothing day.

She hated him.

She loved him.

Elizabeth thought that today would be a nothing day as she slowly climbed the stairs to the deck. The sun greeted her, as bright and blue as usual, and within the first few minutes as she lay against the familiar wooden planks, she felt the beginnings of a sunburn on the tip of her nose. She didn't move. Her skin had peeled and blistered so many times that she rarely gave it a thought anymore.

She licked her chapped lips absently as she stared and thought. The pictures began soon enough. She saw Jack at the helm on an ordinary day. She couldn't remember where they'd been sailing to, what treasure they'd been after—if they'd been searching for a treasure at all. _Elizabeth_. She just remembered looking at him, both hands on the wheel, hair blowing over his shoulders, the trinkets entangled in the strands clinking gently in the breeze. _'Lizabeth!_ She remembered that specifically, that soft _chink_ like wind chimes. He'd caught her staring, of course, and he'd playfully turned around to look behind him. _'Lizabeth!_

The memory faded at the edges after that. She thought that she might have gone to the helm to make him look at her. She thought that she remembered laughing.

"Lizzie!"

Elizabeth frowned.

"You infernal, infuriating, incredible wench, answer me!"

People. Footsteps. Shifting sand. A grunt.

Elizabeth sat up and blinked at the starboard rail. There were . . . people. Faces. Faces with arms and legs and torsos. Just like real people. But they couldn't be. She was alone here. She was always alone here.

One of the faces looked like Jack.

He took a step toward her, and she scrambled to her feet. She drew a pistol from her belt and cocked the hammer. "Don't come closer," she warned. "I'll shoot."

"I deserve that," Jack allowed. "But let's put the gun down, ay?"

He talked like Jack. He had the same clever, mischievous look in his eyes, the same little twitch in his lips that so easily lifted into a smirk. He took another step toward her, and the trinkets in his hair clinked just as she remembered. Oh, this was a cunning trick.

She shoved the gun forward as she took a step toward him. "I know what you're trying to do," she said smartly. "It won't work. I won't fall for your tricks, Jones."

Jack's eyes widened as he pointed to a man near the rail. "What? No, that's him. Shoot him."

"Sparrow!"

Elizabeth's eyes shifted to the other man as she swung her pistol toward him. Jones. _Jones_. He looked like Jones. Same dark hair, same blue eyes. Even held himself the same way. Confident. _Cocky_. He shot a half-annoyed glare at Jack and made no move toward a weapon.

What he did do, however, made Elizabeth pause.

She watched, curious and confused, as instead of drawing a weapon he stepped in front of the woman next to him, his hand reaching out to curl around her hip to gently nudge her behind him. The woman with him—blonde, green-eyed, and annoyed—placed her hand on his arm, as if to tug it down and resume her place at his side, only to scowl when she was kept firmly behind him.

"Dammit, Killian," the woman growled. "Move."

"Forgive me, Swan, but I don't fancy a bullet in you."

Elizabeth frowned.

Killian, not Davy.

And just who was this woman with her name? _Swan_.

Something wasn't . . . this wasn't right.

"Elizabeth," she turned to Jack, pistol still cocked, only to jump in surprise when he was closer than before. The barrel was nestled right over his heart. "Love, look at me. It's not a trick. This is my dashing rescue to save your ungrateful, unhinged, beautiful face, savvy?"

Elizabeth shuddered. Her hand holding her pistol began to tremble. "What did you say?"

"Lizzie, put the gun down," he slowly placed his hand on the barrel, "savvy?"

Tears welled in her eyes. "Jack?"

He grinned. "Aye, love."

"How did you . . . how did you find me? How are you here?"

"Don't you know, Lizzie, love? I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."

And that was when Elizabeth pulled the trigger.

Jack had just enough of a warning to leap to the side. The bullet connected with deck near the stern, sending up a spray of splinters that was ignored by Elizabeth as she fired yet again, the shot hitting the deck just inches from Jack's feet. He pointed an angry finger at her. "Stop blowing holes in my ship!" he shouted.

"Our ship!"

"She was mine first!"

Elizabeth fired again.

"Dammit, Lizzie! I'm real!"

"I know!"

Jack paused to gape at her. "Then why are you bloody shooting at me?!"

"Because I'm angry with you!" Elizabeth raised her pistol but did not fire again. It shook in her hand. "I've been here for over a year, you wretch! Because of you!"

Jack flinched, but instead of looking hurt, he seemed incredulous and then angry. "What do you think I was doing for that year? Taking a bloody holiday?!"

Elizabeth threw away her pistol, which fired as soon as it hit the deck, once again causing everyone on board to jump. "How should I know?" Her voice was nearly a screech as she advanced on him. "I've been here!"

"You didn't have to save me!"

"How can you say that?"

"Bloody hell, woman, what do you want me to say?"

"I hate you!"

"Aye, I love you, too."

Jack reached for her, catching her hand that was raised to slap him, and tugged her to him. Then his lips were on hers. Elizabeth fought back as much as she could. She bit his bottom lip and hit his chest with her free hand, only to have him hold her tighter. _It's not real. It can't be real. He can't be real_.

Honestly, giving in was inevitable.

 _He was real_.

"You're really here," she whispered when she pulled away, her hands cupping his face. "It's been so long."

Jack smiled. "Apologies, love."

"Not that this isn't all very charming, but perhaps we could get a move on?"

Elizabeth and Jack turned to look at Killian, who had his arms folded over his chest in mild impatience, despite the warmth in his eyes that made Elizabeth suspect he wasn't quite as annoyed as he'd like them to believe. A romantic, then. She smirked. "And you are?" she demanded lightly.

"Captain Killian Jones."

"Well, then, Captain Jones, I suppose I have you to thank for rescuing me," she said as she slipped deftly out of Jack's arms, ignoring his pout, to stride across the deck and offer her hand to Killian. "Thank you."

Killian took her hand with a smirk, kissing her knuckles, and ignored the way Emma huffed next him. "You're most welcome, milady," he said cordially.

"Oi, he did very little, tragically little," Jack said as he hurried over, childishly snatching Elizabeth's hand from Killian's. "He just had a ship. Besides, he's just here to save his own bonnie lass."

Elizabeth's eyes settled on Emma with an assessing stare and the subtlest twitch of her lips. Emma nearly glared back, though she tried to remain indifferent and unaffected as she stood next to Killian, close enough so that her arm brushed his. The urge to grab his hand was strong, but she refused to seem so . . . threatened? Possessive?

But Elizabeth smiled widely as she glanced from Emma to Killian before offering her hand once more and saying, "Lovely to meet you. Miss Swan, was it? Interesting coincidence."

Emma smiled, mildly amused. "Yeah," she agreed. "But it's just Emma."

"Emma," Elizabeth repeated. "I'm sorry to have dragged you into this," she said, directing her gaze to Killian to address them both. "Davy Jones learned long ago the way to apply the proper leverage."

"We have leverage of our own," Killian returned evenly before glancing around. "Now that we have you, your Majesty, perhaps we could find a way out of here?"

"Not without the _Pearl_ ," Jack insisted.

"And how do you propose we move a beached ship a _mile_ inland?"

The words had hardly left his mouth before the ship suddenly lurched forward. "Bloody hell," Killian muttered. "What the devil is this?"

Elizabeth, along with everyone else—she'd just now acknowledged that there were a handful of sailors, likely part of Killian's crew, that were also present—went to the rail. The sand seemed to shift, and it took Emma a second to process what she was seeing. "Are those crabs?" she asked in disbelief.

Mountains of crabs lifted the _Black Pearl_ , carrying her forward over the sand at a pace that reminded Emma of downtown traffic. Slow, by all standards, except for the fact that these were _crabs_. "This is impossible," she breathed as she watched the crabs scramble over each other, faster and faster, and holy shit, were they _gaining_ speed?

Jack just grinned as he watched. "Not probable," he corrected.

It was hilarious, actually, how quickly they coasted over the sand. All too soon the _Black Pearl_ was slipping into the water to Elizabeth's cheers. Jack immediately went to the helm, taking a moment to caress the wheel, feeling the smooth grain beneath his fingertips with a smile as a sense of completeness washed over him. He had his girls back.

They dropped anchor near the _Jolly Roger_ with plans to escape the Locker the next day. A gangplank was placed between the two ships, and Killian lent Jack and Elizabeth a handful of men to get the _Pearl_ ready to make way. As evening fell, they all gathered on the _Jolly_ to enjoy a feast cooked up by Wallace, who was too happy to provide thanks to the emerald the size of a walnut that he had found on of the wrecked ships.

Elizabeth sat next to Jack at the head of the table with Killian and Emma. They had all gathered on the deck, bringing out tables and chairs so that it felt like an open air tavern. A handful of instruments had been pulled out for the occasion, and loud, raucous singing echoed over the waves led by a tattooed, mountain of a man with a wide smile and booming voice. She thought his name was Bee.

Rum was passed around like water, and next to her, Jack was well on his way to plastered. His arm was heavy around her shoulders, though it was a comfortable weight, and she happily leaned into his side as she listened with amusement as he argued with Killian over a pointless subject that she had long-since given up on understanding.

A man and his ship.

"I'm tellin' you, Jones," Jack insisted. "The _Pearl_ is the fastest ship on the seas."

Killian laughed. "We'll see about that."

"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow," he said, as if it explained everything.

Killian arched an impressively arrogant eyebrow and replied dryly, "Good for you, mate."

Elizabeth snorted at the bewildered expression on Jack's face, as if he couldn't understand how anyone could treat his name so carelessly, and caught Emma's eye roll across the table. The two locked eyes and shared a strangely commiserating glance that to Elizabeth's surprise, and curiosity, made Emma blush as she glanced quickly at Killian and away in the next moment.

Although, she wasn't quite subtle enough to hide the way her hand dove under the table.

Elizabeth smirked into her rum.

As the night went on and the rum continued to pour, Elizabeth found herself growing weary of the sound; the laughter, the hoots, the howls, even the clink of a mug on the table. She was so used to silence. The company slowly became less welcoming and more exhausting. She was used to being alone.

Jack's arm around her shoulders had steadily slipped as the night went on. Despite that she knew for certain that there was more rum than blood in his veins, his attentions became gentler and softer, his fingers trailing up and down her arm before sliding down to her waist, where he would occasionally sweep his thumb across her belly or under her breast. The more she leaned into him, the more he cradled her, and when she thought that she couldn't stand the noise and the people anymore, he grandly swept her up and in his own grandiose way excused them to the _Pearl_.

Jack led them to the Captain's quarters, and she anticipated the moment when the door was shut, and her back was suddenly pressed against it. Contrary to the tight, rough way that he held her—fingertips digging in, thigh firmly pressed against her—his lips on hers were tender and apologetic. "I'm sorry, 'Lizabeth," he said.

She tangled her fingers in his hair. "I know."

"It's my fault."

"And mine," she assured him quietly, kissing him softly. "I knew what I was doing, Jack. And why." She kissed him again. "Now," she said imperiously. "Are you going to take me to bed or not?"

Jack grinned as he began to trail kisses down her neck. "Is that an order, your Majesty?"

"I _am_ the King."

"I know. I voted for you."

"Jack."

"Aye, love."

* * *

Elizabeth found herself on the deck of the _Pearl_ later in the night. She'd left Jack thoroughly asleep in their quarters. Between the rum and their lovemaking, he wouldn't wake for hours yet. She wished that the same sense of peace could fall over her for more than a few spare hours at a time.

She suspected it was the Locker and the fact that she was still, for all intents and purposes, dead.

And the dead did not need sleep.

She went to the port rail and eyed the gangplank that still connected the _Pearl_ to the _Jolly Roger_. It was quite the ship, the _Jolly_. She admired its fine lines and bright colors that reminded her of the naval ships she'd watched sail in and out of port as a girl. Given what she knew of its Captain, she thought the comparison was appropriately apt.

For all his cocky self-assurance, Killian Jones still held himself like an officer.

Movement on the _Jolly's_ deck caught her eye. A blonde head appeared from below, dressed in plain breeches and a too-big black coat. Emma.

She watched and waited, raising a surprised eyebrow when Emma cautiously crossed the gangplank, purposefully not looking down at the water below, until she was safely aboard the _Pearl_. "Hey," she said simply, slightly awkward.

Elizabeth smiled, amused. "Hello. I suppose you cannot sleep, as well?"

Emma tucked her hair behind her ear. "Something like that," she said.

Silence fell between the two women as both became lost in their own thoughts. Emma rubbed the wood beneath her hands, feeling the difference between the _Jolly_ and the _Pearl_. The _Pearl_ had a more weathered feel to it, the wood almost too smooth beneath her fingertips. She preferred the _Jolly_. It felt more stable beneath her hands.

Funny how she still felt the need to run.

"How long have you been with him?" Elizabeth asked, breaking the silence. "Captain Jones."

Emma huffed a weary laugh as she looked briefly at her feet. "Not long enough," she muttered, more to herself than in answer.

Elizabeth took it in stride. "I see," she said. "Perhaps I asked the wrong question. How long have you been in love with him?"

Emma choked on her own spit. "W-what?"

"I'm sorry," Elizabeth frowned, though Emma thought that the woman wanted to smile instead. "Have I overstepped? I thought it was obvious."

Emma could hardly breathe. " _Obvious_?"

Now Elizabeth did smile. "First love?"

"No."

"But it's the first one that scares you, yes?"

"I don't . . ." She could barely think the word _love_ , let alone say it. "I'm just . . ."

"Running." Elizabeth nodded, as if she understood. "I ran once."

"Why?"

"It's a long story."

Emma looked up at the sky. "There's still time."

"I suppose," Elizabeth agreed as she looked up at the sky as well. "It has been some time since I had a girlfriend to confide in. I confess I was always terrible at making friends with the girls my age. I was far too outspoken for them. They thought I had 'dangerous' ideas."

Emma smiled a little. "Like the fact that they were your own?"

"Indeed." Smoothing a hand over the rail, Elizabeth sighed to herself as she watched the waves lap at the side of the ship. "I'm not actually from this realm," she admitted. "I fell through a portal when I was a young girl. Landed right in the middle of the ocean." She turned to smile briefly at Emma. "It just so happened that the ship carrying the Governor was passing by and saw me in the water. They fished me out, and the Governor became very fond of me. By the time we reached land, he had decided to adopt me, as he had no children of his own and his wife had died the previous year."

Emma stared incredulously for a moment before she snorted. "You're kidding me," she said, momentarily overcome by a flash of jealousy. That just . . . that _didn't_ happen. No one was that lucky. No, maybe it was just her. She wasn't that lucky.

Elizabeth frowned. "I'm sorry," she said. "Have I said something?"

"No," Emma looked down. "It's just . . . I'm an orphan."

"Oh."

"No one ever _grew fond of me_. I mean, I tried to be . . . good. I tried, it just . . . it wasn't ever enough."

"I'm sure it was never anything to do with you, Emma. It was they who were not good enough."

Emma smiled half-heartedly. "That's what Killian said."

"He's certainly fond of you," Elizabeth teased with a slight smirk that made Emma blush. "No man let's a woman on his ship otherwise."

"You said you were from another realm," Emma said to change the subject. The whole reason she had come aboard was to _not_ think about Killian. "Which one?"

"One not so different from this one," she said. "Well, with one exception. Magic."

Emma gaped. "You're from the Land Without Magic?"

Elizabeth nodded. "Yes."

"So am I."

"Really? How odd." She smiled brightly. "But lovely. I was just walking to fetch some water when all of a sudden, a hole tears itself into the ground, pulling me into it, and then I'm landing in the ocean."

"Must have been scary."

"Oh, yes, but I was thrilled more than anything. I came from a poor village. My parents did what they could to keep me comfortable, but my mother was already planning to use my beauty to catch a rich husband. It was not something that I wanted. I wanted to be free, to do what I wished, marry who I wished . . . if I even wished it."

Emma glanced at Elizabeth's hands, which while adorned with a few pretty rings—some simple bands, while others held rubies or diamonds—her ring finger of her left hand was noticeably bare. "What about Jack?" she asked. "You ran away with him, after all."

Elizabeth laughed. "Is that the story, now? I suppose I did, in a way, but it was hardly romantic. I broke him out of that cell on the condition that he take me with him," she said.

"You blackmailed him?"

She smirked. "Pirate," she said, though her smirk softened into a genuine smile. "He couldn't take me with him immediately," she admitted. "But he gave me his word that he would come back for me once he had a ship, and not a fortnight later, he grabbed my hand while I was in the market, and we commandeered the fastest vessel in the Royal Navy, the _Interceptor_ , and we were off."

"But you love him."

"I do," Elizabeth said. "But that wasn't why I ran away with him. I was trapped in an aristocratic society that I loathed, no matter how fond I'd grown to be of the Governor. He'd arranged a marriage for me to Commodore Norrington, who while a good man, would only trap me further in a life that I didn't want." She turned to Emma with a faint smile. "It had nothing to do with Jack. He was a means to an end. I wanted _freedom_."

"That's why we'll never marry," she said. "He's the same way. He understands."

 _You and I, we understand each other._

Emma smiled slightly as she gazed at the _Jolly Roger_. "Yeah," she agreed.

Elizabeth smiled as she followed Emma's stare. "Why are you awake, Emma?"

"I ran away with him," she said quietly, haltingly. She wasn't sure what drove her to confide in Elizabeth. Perhaps it was merely because she hadn't had a decent conversation with another woman in months. Maybe it was because she felt oddly connected with the woman, regardless of their shared last name. Elizabeth was someone, she felt, would understand. Truly understand. "Killian," she felt the need to clarify. "I was sent to this realm, but also back in time. Three hundred years in the past. So this world is _very_ different from mine."

Elizabeth's eyes brightened. "You're from the future in my realm?"

"Yeah. Crazy, right?"

"It's brilliant. How did you meet the good Captain?"

Emma smirked. "I sort of demanded that he help me find my way back home," she said before she suddenly smiled sheepishly. "Well, that's what I'd thought I'd done. But something tells me it was all him. I think he would've helped me no matter what."

She shook her head, trying to shake away the image of that salacious smirk from her mind. "He took me to this sorcerer who explained what had happened to me, that I'd fallen through time. He offered me a way to get back to my realm, but not my time, and I just . . . I didn't think that it would be any better there than here."

"So you stayed."

"Killian asked me to sail away with him. I said no. Twice."

"He asked you twice?"

"Three times, actually," Emma admitted with a blush. "I just . . . no one had ever . . . I've never met anyone like him."

Elizabeth smiled. "He scares you."

"He terrifies me." The answer left her in a whisper. "Every time I think I'm strong enough to not be afraid anymore, he'll do something, or say something, and I'll just . . ."

"Run," Elizabeth finished before she added, with a slow, sly smile. "But perhaps your problem isn't running, Emma. Perhaps it's your direction that's the problem."

Emma frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean to say that, well, when you're afraid, when you're faced with danger, and everything in you is screaming for you to run, it is certainly _safer_ to run away." Elizabeth's brown eyes glinted in the moonlight, shining with what Emma could really only describe as _freedom_. It was a wild look, a bright look. "But," she said, "running _toward_ what scares you is infinitely more fun."

Emma didn't know what to say, but it didn't matter when she spotted Killian climbing onto the deck in his loose linen pants and no shirt. No coat, either, as it was currently around her own shoulders. She watched him for a precious few seconds before his head turned to look over at the _Pearl_ and then at her.

"Someone's found you," Elizabeth teased.

Emma's smile was tremulous. "I think he might always find me," she admitted softly.

"So make it easier for him. Go. Something tells me he'll wait for you until you do."

"I know."

Elizabeth smirked to herself as she watched Emma take a deep breath before crossing the gangplank to the _Jolly Roger_. She waited, her smirk only growing, as Emma slowly walked up to Killian, who only offered her his hand. There was the prevailing sense that she was witnessing something monumental, and she didn't want to miss a second of it. And so when Emma, after a few long seconds, placed her hand in his, Elizabeth laughed lowly to herself, particularly when Killian placed a loving kiss on Emma's hand that he cradled in both of his.

She watched the couple disappear below with a pleased smile.

If those two weren't married within the year, she was holding them both at gunpoint and performing the ceremony herself.

* * *

 **Well, there it is. I anticipate a few questions-or I just feel the need to defend myself-so here it goes. Where's Will, you ask? Well, he's not here. I thought about including him, but to be honest, his character is too close to Killian's in a way, and the more I thought about it, the less sense it made for Will to be present. Between how I've worked Killian into the POTC universe with the relation to Davy Jones and what's to come from that relationship later, Will just didn't have anything to do. And, I freely admit, that while I'll happily ship Will/Elizabeth, I always thought that Jack/Elizabeth made a bit more sense. I never liked that Elizabeth-this tough, independent, girl who blackmailed, cheated, and lied to get what she wanted-ends up waiting patiently for her man on some island.**

 **So I put her in the Locker instead.**

 **And that's that for an explanation.**

 **But how about our Swan Squared? I think that's what I'll call Emma and Elizabeth. I thought that Emma could really do with some girl talk, however much she sucks at it, and Elizabeth seemed perfect.**

 **Next time you'll find out just what made her run! Remember how this story is rated M? Yup. It gets earned next chapter. Hard.**

 ***giggles***

 **Now for a quote from Chapter 19 . . . "If I'm topless, you're topless." - Emma**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Notes: Hello, hello! Here we are yet again on another Friday. As promised, a chapter awaits you. A chapter that-I must warn you-finally fulfills the M rating attached to this story for the past 18 chapters. So, if sexual situations aren't you're thing, feel free to skip, um, well . . . wow, it's really the majority of the chapter. Um . . . stop reading when you're uncomfortable?**

 **For those of you who are all for reading sexy times, you're welcome. ;)**

 **Because I got to say, of all the sex I've written for various ships, CaptainSwan is the most fun.**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own it. Not mine.**

* * *

Chapter 19

Killian credited his sudden initiative to the rum flowing freely through his veins. The feast on deck was a better spread than could be found in any tavern. There was music and singing and some drunken dancing that he laughed at with the rest of his more sober crew members. He sat with Emma at his side, across from Elizabeth and Jack, and felt strangely content despite 1) he was in a realm of the dead, and 2) his not-so-dead grandfather still had a threat hanging over Emma's head.

But, in that very moment, with Bee leading a chorus of "Drink Up Me Hearties" and Williams playing his fiddle while Smee twirled by himself near the main mast, Killian couldn't think of a brighter time.

Emma sat near him but not close enough. Elizabeth was nearly in Jack's lap, and while he by no means envied the other captain, per se, he certainly didn't understand why Emma couldn't be just a _bit_ closer. Yes, it was definitely the rum that gave him the gumption to place his hand on her knee beneath the table. Innocent enough, really. He was certain it was innocent enough.

He was so certain, in fact, that as the night continued, he let his hand drift.

He massaged the soft flesh of her thigh as his hand steadily drifted higher, the warmth of his palm and the warmth of her skin flaring hotly between them. She leaned closer to him as the night went on, wrapping her arm around his and curling her hand around his bicep as she let her head fall on his shoulder.

Her legs seemed to part absently once he finally reached her, as if this was the most natural thing in the world, and he felt too damn giddy at the thought. He wasn't some teenager who'd never touched a woman before, godsdammit, but this was _Emma_. This was his Swan.

So despite the sinful crudeness of the situation, out in the open, surrounded by his crew, it was with near reverence that he let a finger teasingly stroke her center. Her hand clenched around his arm, fingertips digging into his bicep, but she made no move to pull away, and so he stroked her again, relishing the heat of her he began a firm, steady rhythm.

It was all such a thrill, to laugh and carry on all while his hand rubbed her under the table. As the minutes passed, he became determined to make her come from this alone, and increased the pressure, unerringly finding her clit with his palm. He knew it the moment she jerked slightly, her hips rising off the bench toward his hand, the little gasp that only he heard.

He knew she was close. He could feel it in the way she began to subtly move against him, in her now vice-like grip on his arm. He heard the way her breaths shuddered in her chest, and yet she carried on calmly as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, her head still on his shoulder as she talked politely with Elizabeth.

He was simultaneously proud and frustrated by her poise.

It only made him more determined to feel her break under his ministrations.

And yet, right before he _knew_ she was about to fall, she suddenly stilled his hand, and the fingers of her right hand wrapped around his wrist. He didn't understand but made no move to touch her, although that resolve nearly shattered when she tilted her head toward his ear and said, "Not here. I can't return the favor."

She finally released her grip on his arm, though she let her fingertips trail over his bicep, to the crease of his elbow, and down his forearm, leaving a trail of blazing heat in her wake that was still a feeble flame in comparison to the fire that erupted within him when she boldly cupped him and gave him a gentle squeeze.

It took all his self-control not to yank her to her feet and drag her to their quarters. And yes, he now thought of his quarters as _theirs_.

Finally, _finally_ Jack and Elizabeth retired to the _Pearl_.

Killian led Emma below deck before the other couple had fully even crossed the gangplank. He didn't wait for her to climb all the way down the stairs. As soon as he had both feet on solid ground, he turned and reached for her, sliding his hands under her ass and pulling her into his arms. His lips captured hers as she wrapped her legs around his waist, and he could only imagine how glorious it would feel when there was nothing between them.

"You'll be the death of me, Swan," he breathed into her skin as he nipped and suckled the tender flesh of her neck. "Bloody minx."

"We're drunk," she said, even as she fisted her hand in his hair to keep his lips against her neck.

"Aye, love," he agreed, his hands squeezing her ass. "That we are."

He carried her to the bed where he abruptly dropped her, letting her bounce against the feathered mattress. He grinned widely when she giggled. He loved that beautiful, rare sound. He liked being responsible for it. Emma opened her arms for him in a sweet gesture that she immediately ruined when she suddenly grabbed his hand and yanked him down on top of her. He fell with a laugh, catching himself on his forearms before he crushed her, but then her arms were around his neck and her lips were on his and he forgot about anything other than _heat_.

Her skin, her mouth, her hands, the damn air . . . everything was heat.

His fingers made quick work of her vest and shirt, _his_ shirt, and the sight of her breasts contained in a truly flimsy excuse for a corset nearly made him chuckle. He traced the soft cup up to the strap, finger skimming teasingly over the top of her breast and along her shoulder until he childishly tugged the strap down. "And what, may I ask, love, is this?" he asked. "It's unlike any corset I've ever seen."

"Probably because it's not one," Emma said dryly. "It's a bra. Way more comfortable."

She giggled at the curious, almost analytical look in his eyes as he conducted an inspection of the garment currently marring his view of her. He traced each cup and both straps with his hands and then with his mouth, leaving her breasts feeling heavier and heavier each second he continued to ignore them. Finally, his wandering hands slipped around her back, following the band to the clasp, that to her immense surprise he managed to deftly undo with one hand.

"I like this bra of yours, darling," he said as he dragged it down her arms before throwing it to the floor. "Much simpler."

When his eyes inevitably fell to her breasts, Emma had the strangest urge to cover herself. He stared at her with wide eyes that held only the smallest ring of blue, and she watched his tongue swipe tantalizingly over his bottom lip that she suddenly had the urge to capture between her teeth in order to avoid his gaze. Killian groaned into the kiss, not caring about the particularly sharp nip to his lip, yet very aware of her sudden (fantastic) siege on his mouth.

So it was with a firm, but gentle pressure that he changed the nature of the kiss, forcing her to match the sweet strokes of his tongue as he tenderly cupped her cheek in his palm. "You're beautiful, Emma," he said. "Let me look at you."

Emma couldn't understand her hesitation. She hadn't even been this nervous when she'd lost her virginity to Neal. But she was Emma Swan, and she wasn't about to let a few nerves stop her. Maybe just a little delay.

So she squared her shoulders and challenged, "If I'm topless, you're topless."

Killian grinned. "Really? Are those the rules, then?"

"Yeah. Those are the rules. Quid pro quo, pirate."

"As you wish."

But being the pirate that he was, Killian sat up onto his knees, one hand feverishly working the buttons of his vest and then his shirt, all while his eyes soaked up the view of her beneath him. When Emma sat up to help him, he let her, although he made a silent vow that one day she would never feel shy or embarrassed with him. He'd prove to her that she was a goddess to be worshiped.

Once he wasn't distracted by the feel of her chest against his.

Emma tugged his shirt down his arms, throwing it in a random direction. Her hands had minds of their own as they wandered over his skin. It was not a new sight to her. She had seen this skin bloodied and torn before she had seen it as it was now, pale and smooth, covered generously with dark hair that brushed teasingly against her nipples whenever she pressed against him.

Her fingers searched out his scars. She was fascinated with them. Each one strangely reassured her. They were proof that he was a survivor, that he was stubborn, that he wouldn't go so easily. They were proof that he would _stay_.

She ran her hands over his back first, feeling the subtle raised lines from Silver's lashings. Those hurt her more than the others, and when she was sober enough, when she felt brave enough, she planned to kiss each and every one. The other scars were untold stories for her with the exception of one, the newest, the one that she was responsible for, in some ways.

Killian shivered when she brushed it with her fingertips.

His lips were at her neck again, although this time he determinedly continued south, lingering teasingly over her collarbone before finally reaching her breasts. He squeezed one with his hand while his mouth went to work on the other, leaving her a quivering mess that was almost embarrassing.

What was truly embarrassing, however, was the loud moan that escaped her when his free hand slipped between them and into her pants to cup her, the thick pad of his finger dragging teasingly through her folds.

"This is much better, isn't it, Swan?" he whispered in her ear. "No barriers, just my hand and your heat. You're absolutely dripping for me, love." He let his finger slide into her, and she gasped. "You were nearly there on deck," he said as he began to slowly stroke her, keeping the same rhythm as he had before, "I wonder how long it will take you now?"

Emma sighed. "Killian."

The combination of alcohol, his voice—dear god, she knew in her gut that she could come from his voice alone—and her already frayed nerves had her clenching around him far too soon. Her orgasm washed through her in a wave of heat, his name on her lips as he continued to gently stroke her until she could only tremble against him as she fought to catch her breath.

"Beautiful, Swan," he whispered. "Gods, darling." She blushed, only deepening the flush on her skin, and Killian chuckled fondly. "One day, you won't blush when I tell you the truth," he promised.

He nuzzled her neck, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt on her skin, as he tried to ignore the near painful throb of his erection, which wasn't at all helped when Emma slid her hand down his stomach to cup him as she had on deck. The groan that escaped him was completely beyond his control as was the way he thrusted lightly into her touch.

 _Good form, good form, you believe in good form, Jones_ , he told himself.

"Darling," he said, truly amazed by his ability to speak in a relatively steady voice. "You don't have to, ah, return the favor, as you said. I can take care of it."

But Emma only squeezed him again. "That would be against the rules," she said. "Quid pro quo, remember?"

Killian meant to laugh, but a strangled groan came out instead. "Aye, love," he agreed. "So you said."

Emma smiled as she began to undo the laces of his pants—this was one area where she truly missed the simplicity of a zipper—huffing in frustration when her fingers failed cooperate with her desires. Killian chuckled again. "Anxious, Swan?" he teased before undoing the laces himself with a practiced hand, sighing in mild relief when his erection was free, before hissing in a sharp breath when Emma's hand immediately wrapped around him. "Gods, warn a man, love," he breathed raggedly.

And the woman had the nerve to laugh at him.

In a heartbeat, she had them flipped so that he was on his back while she sat on his thighs, presenting him with the loveliest view of her breasts that still held the faintest flush from her orgasm. A view, which, unfortunately (or fortunately) disappeared when she gave him a firm, confident stroke and his eyes slammed shut. "Bloody hell," he breathed as she set a steady rhythm that so mirrored the one he had used on her that he knew she'd done it on purpose.

Oh, he'd have his revenge.

Once he could think about anything other than her hand.

Emma grew bolder with each stroke. This was where she was comfortable. She was in control. He was at her mercy. And there was something unbearably hot about having a notorious pirate captain at her mercy, cursing under his breath, letting her know that under all that _good form_ there was a sailor's vocabulary.

He looked so delectable beneath her, his cock growing unbelievably harder under her attentions, weeping at the tip that she swiped with her thumb. Emma couldn't resist a taste, and Killian nearly came on the spot when her lips wrapped around him. His hand fisted in her hair, and he had to forcefully remind himself not to shove her head down so he could feel the back of her throat.

This was _not_ quid pro quo.

He didn't care. He'd make it up to her. Thoroughly.

"Swan, I'm . . . Emma, love . . . I'm, I'm, fucking hell, I . . ."

She only hummed around him in answer, and that was enough to tip him over the edge. He came with a shout, and Emma didn't flinch, swallowing around him, and swiping away what little was left on her lip with her thumb. When Killian opened his eyes, he was met with the most impish little smirk, and he tugged her down to him, not caring when she landed heavily on his chest. He trapped her in his arms and kissed her, tasting himself on her lips and not giving a damn. He hummed contentedly as his hand trailed down her back, stopping on her still clothed ass with an internal frown. "Those should come off," he muttered. "It's a grave, overlooked error on my part."

Emma's laugh was more of a sigh as she nestled into the crook of his neck. "You still have your boots on," she said with a smile.

Two muted thuds followed in short order and he nudged her gently. "So do you," he said. "Quid pro quo, love."

Two more thuds. "There," she said.

"Technically, my trousers are off, in that they're not fully on," he added.

Emma snorted. "Pirate."

"Aye," he agreed, suddenly rolling them so that he was hovering above her. "What do you say we get rid of them all together?"

His hands began to work the already loosened laces of her own pants, and Emma tensed, placing a staying hand on his, and feeling an overwhelming surge of emotion when he immediately stopped and looked at her in concern. "Swan?"

"Killian," she began. "You know that this, you know that I'm not," she huffed, "that I can't . . ." He silenced her stammering with a sweet kiss that eased all of her tension in seconds. "I'm not ready yet," she said quietly.

For the smallest span of a second, she worried that she'd fucked everything up. She shouldn't have let them get this far. It was only setting up an expectation that she couldn't give him. She was just drunk, and he was drunk, and maybe this was all a mistake . . .

"Emma," he said softly, breaking through her thoughts. "I know, love. I know." He kissed her again, achingly sweet, his hand gently slipping into her hair. "When I make love to you, and I _will_ , I plan for the both of us to be completely sober," he said as he tenderly stroked her cheek with his thumb. "Because I want to remember every single second of when I make you mine."

The possession in his voice, as well as the surety, should have raised her hackles. She wasn't _his_. She didn't _belong_ to him. Yet with him on top of her and her arms around him, he felt entirely _hers_.

Yet she couldn't resist saying, "I'm not loot, you know."

But Killian just smiled faintly, that small little smile that was sweet and soft and achingly tender, and said, "Not all treasure is silver and gold, Swan."

And just like that, her walls went up.

She thought that she managed to hide it when she immediately arched up to claim his lips, pulling a soft moan from him that didn't thrill her half as much as it had before. She was distracting him now, and she was patient as he regrettably pulled himself away from her to clean up a bit and change out of his leathers. She did the same, tearing off her pants and slipping his shirt over her head.

When Killian climbed back into the bed, she settled next to him as she usually did, though she no longer found the closeness comforting, and she tried to focus on the charms of his necklace instead of his arm around her. Trapping. Constrictive. Suffocating.

Emma slipped out of bed the moment she knew he was asleep.

She put on her jeans, feeling the need to reconnect with her old life, her old self, though she still took Killian's leather coat instead of her own red jacket. She told herself that it was a matter of convenience, that opening the trunk to retrieve it might wake Killian, but in her gut she knew that wasn't the case at all.

Emma buried her nose in the collar of his coat as she came up on the empty deck. The food had been cleared away, and she made a note to thank Wallace. She knew he hadn't participated in the celebration near as much as everyone else knowing he would need his wits to clean up afterwards. She was definitely buying him a drink at the next port.

Her feet led her to the rail, and she was surprised to look across to the _Black Pearl_ and see Elizabeth staring back at her. Emma crossed the gangplank before she really knew what she was doing. Instinct told her that she should be alone, but above even that was the desire to _run_. To get away. From the _Jolly_ , from Killian, from this new person she was becoming. She needed to run, and finally, finally she had somewhere to go.

But Elizabeth Swann wasn't going to let her get too far.

 _. . . perhaps your problem isn't running, Emma. Perhaps it's your direction that's the problem._

 _. . ._ _when you're afraid . . . and everything in you is screaming for you to run, it is certainly_ safer _to run away . . . but running_ toward _what scares you is infinitely more fun . . ._

Naturally, Killian chose that moment to appear on deck. Emma watched him scan the deck, and when his eyes landed on her, she felt them in her chest. On her heart.

 _How long have you been in love with him?_

It was too fast, too soon. She couldn't possibly . . .

 _I can't take the chance that I'm wrong about you._

No. There just wasn't . . . she _couldn't_ have known then. This wasn't some _fairytale_. She wasn't a princess, and he wasn't some knight. She was an orphan, and he was a pirate.

But she remembered how she'd felt with him in her arms, that surge of possession that she'd never felt before, that conscious thought of _mine_. She wanted him. He was hers. Just hers.

 _Not all treasure is silver and gold._

He thought she was a treasure. His treasure.

 _Pirate_ , she thought fondly.

She walked to the gangplank without further thought, her heart hammering in her chest. Maybe Elizabeth was right. Maybe she should just run in a different direction. Running away had only ever brought loneliness. It made sense that running in the opposite direction might bring her something completely different.

And as long as she thought of it like that, as if it was something as logical and simple as two plus two, Emma wasn't afraid.

Killian didn't move as she stepped into the deck. He just looked at her, and she noted with some chagrin that he seemed to be pondering his best move. He didn't know what to do, what _she_ would do. There was an undercurrent of tension in his shoulders, a glint of hesitation in his eyes. He was afraid.

Hadn't she promised him only the other day that she wouldn't run? And look what she had done in response. Shared an innocent moment—yes, there had been something strangely innocent about their time together, despite the alcohol involved—and then forced him to wake up alone.

And that was, well, that was just _mean_. And careless and selfish and . . . he was still here, still waiting for her, and god, she really didn't deserve it.

"I'm sorry," she apologized.

Killian frowned slightly. He hadn't expected her first words to be an apology. He'd been prepared for high walls and sharp comments. "Sorry for what, Swan?"

She smiled shyly, rueful. "Running. I promised you I wouldn't and then I . . . did."

He took a tentative step closer. "And why did you run, love?"

"I got scared."

"Of what?"

"Of you. And me. Us."

"Why?"

"Because I _want_ it," she whispered. "I want you. I want this life, this ship. I want everything. You make me want everything I promised myself I wouldn't want."

Killian's frown only deepened. "Then why run, Swan?"

Her eyes glistened. "Because I never get what I want."

And to her surprise, Killian smiled. "Nor do I, love," he said, taking her hand in both of us and bringing it to his lips. "Until I met you." Emma took a step closer, and he smirked ever so slightly. "And now that I have you, I don't ever plan on letting you go," he added. "But at some point, darling, even though we're quite different, you're going to have to trust me."

Emma frowned. "That's what you think this is about? That I don't trust you?"

"Is that not what it's about?"

"Of course, I trust you," she said, closing the distance between them until their clasped hands were sandwiched between their chests. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"I'm not talking about that kind of trust, love. Trust me with your heart, Emma."

 _I can't take the chance that I'm wrong about you._

It seemed like forever ago when she'd told him that, when she'd warned herself away from him. Even then, some part of her had known. Some part of her had known that she could trust him, not just to lead her home but with everything. Heart, mind, body, and soul, she'd known it even then.

And so she'd hidden behind her walls, tried to push him away, only to have him come back again and again and again. Just like now.

 _How long have you been in love with him?_

"I do," she said softly as the realization washed over her. It ignited a fire in her chest that was equal parts elation and panic, and once again she was swept up by the urge to run. Love hurt. It had done nothing but hurt her, and honestly, what was she thinking?

 _Run_.

So she did, but this time, Emma Swan ran in a different direction. She brought her hand up to touch his face, her fingers scrapping against his scruff, and she smiled when she saw the wonder in his eyes, like he couldn't believe she existed and was here, with him. He leaned into her touch when she didn't pull away, kissing her palm in that sweet, almost shy way of his that made her heart swell.

"I've had my walls up for so long," she admitted with a sheepish smile. "I guess I'm still getting used to the idea that I don't need them with you."

Killian's answering smile was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

* * *

 ***dies of feels***

 **Yeah, so . . . Emma made a realization we've all known was coming. Just maybe not so soon? I know when I wrote this chapter, this ending totally snuck up on me, and I was like, "Oh, is she here? Yep. Yes, she is." I've always been very conscious of Emma's character. I relate to her in a lot of ways, but what I like most about her character (and also what frustrates me most) is that she's a runner. She has walls and she has her armor, and the only reason she has surrendered to her feelings and acknowledged them for what they are is because there's literally nowhere for her to run. Emma has always had a place to go, but now she doesn't. She's stuck in the Enchanted Forest, stuck with Killian, and so she has no choice but to face him and everything that he brings to her life.**

 **So yeah, she loves him and she knows it.**

 **What she does with this news is, of course, for you to find out!**

 **Next time in Run Baby, Run . . . "You amuse me, Miss Swan." - Davy Jones**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	20. Chapter 20

**Author's Notes: Hello, hello! Here we are after another week. And hey, chapter 20 of about a million! I'm still writing this story as we go, and I need to jump on it, honestly. I got distracted by other fics and dipped back into my obsession with Eric Northman after randomly catching a True Blood episode. But fear not, I've still got a lot of chapters in the bank. There will be no lulls in posting, I promise.**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Chapter 20

Killian woke to that blissful, hazy limbo after a deep sleep. He wasn't quite sure he was even awake. Sounds were muted. Thoughts crawled lazily through his mind. _Warm_. _Soft_. He inhaled deeply. _Vanilla._

 _Emma._

His arms tightened around her, and he buried his nose deeper into her hair. She made a little noise in response, maybe a sigh, but he was still too sleepy to tell. He only knew that he liked the sound, and he wanted to hear it again. Weeks of sharing a bed with this woman, and now he finally felt like he had the unspoken permission to touch her.

His eyes were still closed as his hand cupped her breast, and he smiled into her neck when she sighed yet again.

He was debating waking her up when he heard it. His movements stilled, though he tried to stay as relaxed as possible. He needed to gain advantage. Appear oblivious.

Had one of the crew come for the heart? He hadn't heard the stairs groan under footsteps. He didn't hear anything other than breathing. His own and Emma's. _Emma_.

The protective instinct that filled him was by no means unexpected and yet the intensity still surprised him. He used it to focus on his course of action, rather than the fact that Emma's soft body against his suddenly felt very, very fragile.

No one on the stairs. He knew from experience that he would wake up. A mutinous deckhand had once tried to slit his throat in his sleep. He'd found a dagger embedded in his chest instead.

A dagger that Killian still kept under his pillow.

There was an uncomfortable itch between his shoulders. Someone was staring at him. Perhaps he hadn't heard anything at all. Perhaps it had merely been a feeling of being watched. How long had they been there? How long had it taken for him to notice?

Any answer was ultimately unacceptable.

He was reaching under Emma's pillow for his dagger when two things happened at once: Emma woke up, and a blade was drawn.

Killian reacted with a speed that took everyone in the room by surprise. He grasped the dagger in his hand and turned, blade already raised to block the descending flash of silver that was Davy Jones's sword. The metal met with a clash that had Emma surging upright, eyes wide and searching until they landed on where Killian stood between her and Davy Jones.

When a moment passed and no one made a move to kill each other, she hastily gathered her wits and stood next to Killian. She glared at Davy Jones. "Ever heard of knocking?" she snapped.

Jones stared at her and then chuckled, "You amuse me, Miss Swan." He looked her up and down, eyes lingering on her bare legs, and his smile became more lecherous. "Although, you are certainly nothing to laugh at, as it were."

Killian growled. "That's enough," he said, taking a step forward. "We have your heart."

Jones's eyes didn't leave Emma. "But what if I want more?"

"You'll have to kill me."

"That's simple enough."

"Whoa, hey," Emma quickly took a step forward, placing one hand on Killian's arm and holding the other out to warn Jones away. She glared at him. "The deal was for the heart," she said. "That's all you asked for, and that's all you're getting. So do you want your heart or not?"

Jones held her gaze until he abruptly smiled, looking strangely boyish as he shrugged and slid his sword into its sheath. "Fair enough," he agreed.

Emma didn't take her eyes off of him as she said, "Killian, get the key."

"Swan—"

"It's fine."

She heard him swear under his breath but nonetheless moved away to get the key. Glaring at Jones as she walked forward, she kept eye contact with him until she was forced to turn away to open the desk drawer where she had hidden the chest. By the time she stood and placed the box on the desk, Killian was back at her side, the heat of his body a comforting warmth.

He dropped the key onto the desk next to the box. "There," he said. "You have what you wanted. Now leave."

But Jones only picked up the key and then offered it to Emma with a charming, dangerous smile. "Perhaps dear Emma can do the honors?"

Emma's eyes narrowed. "You can't open it, can you?"

"The circumstances that would have once allowed me to open it no longer apply."

"What makes you think I can?"

"Let's just say I'm willing to bet you have what it takes. If not," he shrugged and smiled blandly, "the offer to cut out your heart is still on the table."

Killian took an angry step forward, and Emma placed a halting hand on his chest. "Killian, don't listen to him," she said. "He's just trying to bait you."

It was undoubtedly true and yet Emma couldn't understand why. Jones was calculated, and though she saw the genuine amusement in his eyes whenever he goaded his grandson, beneath that was almost something anxious. It reminded her of a child who needed to be reassured that monsters weren't really under the bed.

Jones was worried, and yet he eyed her with a strange, heavily-veiled hope.

She took the offered key, feeling the weight of it in her hand. It felt heavier than it should but maybe that was just her imagination. With the key in her hand, she felt required to study the box closer than she had when she'd hidden it. It was intricately made, a mixture of wood and metal, blackened until it almost looked charred. Like some strange, gothic music box.

 _. . . thump, thump . . . thump, thump . . ._

Emma frowned as she heard the disturbingly vivid beating. The key in her hand seemed to weigh even more as the sound reverberated in her mind.

 _. . . thump, thump . . . thump, thump . . . thump, thump . . ._

And then something truly amazing happened when she slid the key into the lock.

Her hand _glowed_.

At first she was only shocked. She thought that the white light came from within the box, like the Arc of the Covenant from _Indiana Jones_ , but the longer that she stared, it became frighteningly plain that the light came from her.

Like magic.

Terror made her quickly turn the key, causing the lid of the chest to pop open. Emma dropped the key immediately and scrambled backward, directly into Killian's chest, which only caused her to jump away from him, holding her hand in front of her in horror.

It was still glowing.

Panic welled within her. A wind swept through the cabin, which didn't make any sense at all because the windows were closed. Papers flew off the desk. A book fell to the floor. Every candle in the room was suddenly lit, burning too brightly, the flames continuing to climb higher and higher and she was going to burn the ship and then they'd be trapped and Killian would hate her and . . .

"Swan." Killian appeared in front of her, arms out, placating. "Emma, love, you've got to calm down."

She shook her head frantically. The wind in the cabin picked up. "I can't!"

"Look at me, Swan," he urged, taking a step closer to her, only to have her take one back, her glowing hand in front of her as a warning.

"Don't come closer," she said. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

He took a step.

"Killian, don't."

Another step.

"Please."

"It's alright, love," he said softly, raising his hand toward hers. "Swan, it's alright."

Before she could stop him, he slipped his fingers through hers. Her hand didn't stop glowing. In fact, the light seemed to wrap around his hand. Emma searched his face for any sign of pain, but he only smiled at her and gently pulled on her hand to bring her closer. She went tentatively, darting looks between their hands and his face, until his free hand cupped her cheek.

"Just look at me, Emma," he said, his voice firm yet gentle. "Just look at me and breathe."

It made no sense to do what he said—her hand was glowing, for Christ's sake—but Emma made the mistake of looking into his eyes and so she was trapped.

She breathed.

He was calm. She didn't understand how he could be so calm, but he was, and some of it inevitably washed over her. The wind stopped and papers slowly drifted down to the floor. The candle flames shrank until they were a normal, flickering glow. And to her surprise, despite the anxiety roiling within her, her breaths matched his.

Killian flashed a smile as he looked down pointedly. "Look," he said.

She looked.

Her hand was normal again.

She shuddered in relief. "What the hell was that?" She turned to Jones, who looked troubled and . . . different. "What did you do?"

Jones looked at her absently. "Merely unlocked a part of you that was always there, love," he said. "You're quite welcome."

" _What_?"

"Magic, lass. You have it."

"That's just . . . that's ridiculous. I can't . . . I'm not _from_ here."

"Perhaps not," Jones agreed, though Emma didn't quite believe him, "but you certainly belong here," he said as he stared at his own hands like he didn't trust them.

Killian's eyes narrowed as he watched Jones. "What have you done?" he asked.

Jones looked up, and there was a strange new glint in his eyes. Something lively. "It's a funny thing, in this realm," he said. "You can live without your heart. I just lived without one for so long that I forgot what it felt like." He rubbed his chest, right over his scar. "Strange indeed."

Emma frowned. "So you . . . couldn't feel anything?"

"Living without a heart is like living in a shadow. Everything is dulled. Less vibrant. And after centuries, that shadow only gets darker and darker until it's all that you are." Jones sighed as he looked at the empty chest. "No need for this anymore."

With a wave of his hand, the chest vanished.

Emma flinched at the display, her gaze once again darting to her hand. Still normal. Jones caught her look. "Magic is nothing to fear, lass," he said. "You only have to use it to learn it."

"Can you take it away?"

"Alas, I cannot. And if I could, I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because it is a part of you, and you, my girl, are quite powerful. I'm sure the lad felt it when he took your hand."

Emma wanted to look at Killian to see if Jones's words were true, but she was too distracted by the calculating look in ancient captain's eye. "You mean you want me as an ally," she guessed, shocked and upset.

He wouldn't take away her magic because of future _leverage_?

Jones smiled. "I'm a pirate, lass. Best get used to dealing with our selfish ways if you plan on sailing the seas with my grandson. He's one of the best of the lot."

It wasn't meant as a compliment. Yet it wasn't exactly an insult, either. Merely a fact.

"Now," his hand rested on his chest as he spoke, as if he needed to feel the beat of his heart beneath his palm to be sure it was there, "I do believe I'll take my leave."

"As we will take ours," Killian returned. "If only we knew how to get out."

"Up is down."

"What?"

"Up is down," Jones repeated. "It's all you need to know."

"What the bloody hell does that mean?"

"It means what I said it means." Jones began to back away, headed straight for the wall behind him without a care. "Oh, and," he held up a hand, "you might be inclined to sail to Shipwreck Cove." He smiled without humor. "I imagine the seas are about to be rough."

And right before he would have run into the wall, he vanished.

Emma stared at the wall for a long moment, making sure that Jones was really gone, and only then did she turn around, her shoulders sagging as she let out a ragged breath. Her eyes fell to her hand. "I don't know what to do," she said numbly.

Killian took her hand again. "Nothing, love," he assured her. "Not right now."

"How did you know?" She looked at their hands. "How did you know I wouldn't hurt you?"

He smiled. "Well, I'd certainly hoped."

Emma stared at him wide-eyed. "You mean you weren't sure?!"

"Honestly, love, don't make _too_ big a deal out of it."

"Too big? My hand was glowing! With . . ."

"Magic," Killian finished.

"Why are you not freaking out?"

"Well, I think you're doing that well enough."

Emma growled, and though he felt guilty about it, Killian chuckled. Taking her face in his hands, he kissed her softly before pulling away only to kiss her forehead. "We will figure it out, Swan," he said. "Until then, let's try to figure out how to get out of this bloody Locker."

Emma smiled as she looked down, suddenly shy as memories of the night before flashed through her mind. Her eyes fell on his chest and lingered. Her thumb ran over a scar on his collarbone. "See something you like, darling?" he teased.

She only hummed in response, though she looked up at him with a close-lipped, sneaky smile. "You know what we should do first?" she asked.

Killian grinned as his arms slipped around her waist. "I have a few ideas," he said, his breath warm against her ear before he gently tugged on her earlobe with his teeth.

Emma laughed, breathier than she liked, but it was a laugh that nonetheless contained the hint of mocking that she wanted. She turned her head and whispered into his ear, "First, we should get dressed."

Before he could protest, she slipped out of his arms and crossed the cabin, ignoring the papers still scattered on the floor as she reached for her pants. She wasn't too surprised when she felt Killian at her back as soon as she was upright, his arms once again around her. "That wasn't very nice, Swan," he said.

"But practical." She turned around and pressed a shirt to his chest. "I'll meet you on deck, Captain."

She gave him a peck on the lips, grabbed her boots, and started for the stairs.

Killian watched her go, shirt held loosely against his chest, and unable to hold back a smile.

He dressed quickly and was on deck just as the sun rose.

Jack was at the helm of the _Pearl,_ and Killian ordered half his crew to the black ship so that they might make better time. He still had no idea what Jones meant when he said that "up is down" but he wasn't about to sit around and think about it. At the very least, he was going to feel like he was going somewhere.

Unfortunately, that didn't get him too far either.

They sailed all day, and yet it was not like the days before. The seas were not calm, and the breeze was not gentle. As the day passed, the seas grew rough, the wind howled, and the sky darkened. Killian scowled from the helm.

"Oi!" Jack leaned against the rail of the _Pearl_ while Elizabeth took the helm. "Mind sharing what you're up to, mate?!"

 _Up is down, up is down . . . what the bloody hell did that mean?_

He had thought about it all day, turning the phrase over and over in his mind. It didn't make sense. He looked at the sky, eyes on the falling horizon. He wasn't about to stay another night in the Locker. He refused.

Emma came up to the helm, her ponytail whipping her face in the wind. "Guess Jones was right about the seas," she said, voice raised to be heard over the wind. "What's going on?"

"I don't bloody know," he replied, frustrated. "Up is down!"

"Well, I don't know about that, but the sun is definitely going down."

Killian paused. "What did you say?"

"It's nearly sunset—"

"No, you said sun _down_. Bloody hell, love, you're a genius!" Killian surged forward and planted a smacking kiss on her lips. "We need to rock the ship."

Emma blinked. "What?"

"Up is down, love. We need to rock the ship."

"But . . ."

"Trust me." Killian turned to Jack. "Up is down! Rock the ship!"

Jack frowned for a moment before he looked at the sinking sun and then he grinned widely. "Aye!"

Killian locked the wheel, grabbed Emma's hand, and led them to the deck. "C'mon lads!" he said. "We're rocking the ship!"

"We're what?" Vincent repeated blankly.

"Aye, go below. Loosen the cannons. Anything with weight, I want to roll."

When no one immediately moved, Killian raised a dangerous eyebrow. "Do I need to repeat myself or do the lot of you want to rot down here? Now, move!"

Everyone scrambled to do as they were told as Killian went to the rail. "Time it with the swells," he ordered.

Emma clutched the rail next to him. "I just want to go on record and say that this is the craziest thing I've ever done, and I just had a glowing hand," she said.

Killian laughed, slightly manic. "I hope this works, too. Here we go."

And so they started running across the deck, from rail to rail like a twisted game of red rover. There was a shudder and a crash from below with each pass as the cannons crashed into the sides of the ship. Emma winced at the damage but kept running. The change was slow. She initially didn't realize how much the ship was tipping until she was decidedly running uphill to reach the rail, and each time she ran down, she began to worry that on the next pass she just might fall into the water.

A glance to her right showed her the _Black Pearl_ , or rather its hull, which she thought in that moment was just indecent.

That meant it was working.

Which she supposed was a good thing if Killian was right.

"One more should do it, lads!" he shouted before starting up to the rail. It was like trying to run up a mountain, and Emma wasn't sure how she managed to follow him and wrap her entire arm around the rail, but she did and she hung on tight. That moment that she'd worried about? When she'd fall?

She'd reached that moment.

Everyone hung suspended for a horrifying second before the ship tipped completely, and then they were in the water, still upside down and _not_ in the Enchanted Forest. She looked over at Killian, but his eyes were on the reflection of light still playing on the top of the water's surface, and so she looked, too. The light was that reddish orange display of color she'd grown to expect from a sunset.

No, sun _down_.

She watched and waited, trying to ignore the growing burn in her lungs. The light slowly became darker and darker but it wasn't fast enough. She needed air. She needed to breathe.

 _Come on, come on, come on, come on . . ._

Then suddenly she was being blasted upward or was it down? Emma couldn't tell, and she didn't care. She just closed her eyes and held on. Then, like popping the cork to a bottle of champagne, the _Jolly Roger_ sprung to the surface, right-side up, and in the Enchanted Forest. Emma knew that because she was staring not at the sunset, but at what was undoubtedly a sunrise.

And she laughed.

"Holy shit," she breathed. "I can't believe that worked."

The quip was like a whip, cracking the crew's stupor and disbelief and causing them all to start laughing. She looked at Killian, his hair plastered to his head that he abruptly shook, sending water drops sailing toward her. "Hey, watch it," she complained. "I'm already soaked, alright?"

Killian laughed as he leaned heavily against the rail. "Up is down," he said. "It really does mean exactly what it says."

He glanced over the top of the rail. "Jack and Elizabeth and the rest made it," he said, spotting Jack waving his arms as he walked around deck. "Bloody hell."

Cursing as he got to his feet, he offered a hand to Emma that she gladly took. He pulled her to her feet, yet unlike she had come to expect given the last few days, he immediately let go and walked toward the crew. "I don't know what you lot are laughing about," he snapped. "We've got a damaged ship, not a clue where we are, and a storm brewing."

Emma glanced at the sky, and sure enough it was blood red. Thunder rolled in the distance.

"Mr. Smee," Killian barked. "Go below and assess the damage. Mr. Graves, Mr. Todd, go with him and secure those cannons."

"Aye, Captain," they muttered and then hurried to complete their task.

Killian eyed the rest of the crew. "The rest of you, sleep in shifts. Mr. Turner," he turned to Vincent. "You have the helm while I figure out where the hell we are."

"Aye, sir."

The crew disbursed, half going below to the crew's quarters while Vincent went to the helm, but not before passing by Emma and raising his eyebrows lightly, "Thought he'd lost his head. Glad to see that's not the case, eh, lass?"

Emma only smiled and shook her head. "Go steer the ship, sailor."

"Aye, mum."

"And stop calling me that, you idiot."

Vincent just laughed and continued to the quarterdeck. Emma shook her head at him once again, spared a glance toward the _Pearl_ , and then followed after Killian to the Captain's cabin. She descended the stairs quickly, her only focus on not tripping over her own feet, and so when she finally looked up, she was in for a surprise.

"Whoa," she breathed. "This is . . . wow."

"It's a bloody fucking mess, is what it is, Swan," Killian growled as he stood in the middle of the cabin. Everything was topsy-turvy. The desk was upended. Every single book was on the floor, along with all of his maps, and while the majority of the furniture, like the bed, was bolted to the floor, the trunk at the foot of it was not, and its contents, varied as they were, were scattered across the cabin floor.

Killian kicked at the papers on the floor. "How the hell am I supposed to find anything?"

Emma smiled to herself despite it all as she bent to pick up the paper closest to her. "One at a time, babe," she said as she flipped it over. "Here's a note to buy more rope."

Killian hung his head. "Bloody hell, fuck me," he muttered as he ran his hand over his face, yet in the same motion pointed toward her and said, "Don't think I didn't notice your little endearment, love."

She rolled her eyes. "Come on, Captain," she as she picked up more paper. "This place isn't going to fix itself."

Killian groaned and cursed some more but nonetheless bent to help. Eventually, he found his map of the Enchanted Forest, and once he located his sextant—under the bed, of all places—he set his desk upright and began to work. Emma continued to pick up, placing books back onto their shelves, and a strange feeling of domesticity overcame her, particularly since she . . . didn't mind it.

It was . . . nice.

In that it was comforting and easy. Killian plotting their course while she righted their cabin—yes, she'd finally caved and admitted it—all with a content silence between them. She'd never experienced a silence that was comfortable. She knew lonely silences and awkward silences and angry silences and just plain uncomfortable silences but not anything that was just . . . easy.

She didn't feel the need to make conversation. She didn't feel like anything was expected of her, whether it be in words or actions. She was just _being_ and Killian just happened to be sharing that space.

It was a novel idea.

Once the books were in place, she started on the papers. Maps she stacked together on the bed so that they wouldn't get stepped on as she walked around the cabin. The rest of the papers she organized. Pages of the logbook were loose, and she sorted those by date in a small pile. The rest were letters to be sent, orders for supplies, and what she realized after finding a handful of the same type of document were receipts.

She'd thought they were just grocery lists.

Technically, she supposed, they were.

Once everything was in neat piles, she found the paperweights that had once been on his desk. One was under the bed, the other was pinned between the bookcases, and another was by Killian's foot, and she tried to keep her thoughts clean as she knelt on her knees to get it. Judging by the way he glanced down at her and his suddenly devilish smirk, she knew that the both of them had failed.

But he said nothing and went back to his map, his eyes narrowed contemplatively as he ran his fingertips over the page. Suddenly, he took his spyglass from his coat and opened the window. He looked out at the water, searching for what, she didn't know, until he collapsed the spyglass with a smirk.

"Never fear, Swan, I've figured out where we are," he said grandly.

She smirked as she leaned against his back, wrapping her arms around his chest as she propped her chin on his shoulder. "And where are we?"

"We're a few leagues from Tortuga, believe it not," he said.

"Hmm," she hummed. "I could use a drink."

Killian chuckled. "I could use a whole bloody bottle."

"Only if you plan to share."

"You're asking much of a simple pirate, love. I'll gladly share my bed," he began as he turned slightly, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her to him. "And I'll even share my ship, but l don't know if I can part with me rum."

Emma grinned slyly as she let her fingers card through his damp hair. "I'll persuade you," she promised.

Killian groaned before he claimed her lips in a kiss that was a mix of relief, desperation, and exhaustion. His hands on her were tight, his lips demanding. She pulled away with a sigh, her eyes staying shut as she let her forehead lay against his chest. It was as if now that she'd shut her eyes, she realized just how heavy they were.

"You should sleep, Swan," Killian said quietly. "It's been a rather long day."

She hummed. "I'm glad we're back. The Locker was weird."

Killian smiled slightly. "Aye, love. Sleep."

"You too."

"There are a few things I have to take care of."

"Then sleep."

"Yes, darling. Then sleep."

Emma sighed deeply. "Okay."

Killian helped her out of her damp clothes, and when she collapsed into bed in nothing but her knickers, immediately cuddling his pillow in such a sweet, vulnerable way that he knew he'd never have seen if she wasn't so exhausted, he nearly crawled right in next to her. Instead, he settled for running the back of a knuckle over her cheek before climbing the steps to the deck. Mr. Smee was waiting for him, red knit hat clutched in his hands.

"Mr. Smee," he said. "Tell me something good."

"The cannons are unharmed."

"Very good. But what of my _ship_ , Mr. Smee?"

Smee began to twist his hat. "Well, Captain, there's been some damage. It's not entirely unexpected, I think, sir."

"Aye, but that's not what I asked, is it?"

"We'll need to stop in the nearest port for supplies, sir," he said. "The ship itself just needs a bit of love, sir. It's the food and water that is our biggest concern."

"Good work, Mr. Smee. Let the crew know that we sail for Tortuga and should dock by midday."

Smee's eyes widened slightly at the mention of the pirate port. Rarely did Killian visit the scandalous town, and so two trips in as many weeks was akin to a holiday. He nodded quickly. "Yes, Captain. I'll let them know. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

"Not at this moment, but I'm sure I'll be able to think of something."

"Yes, sir."

Killian moved to the helm where Vincent stood. "Mr. Turner, give me back my ship."

"Aye, sir."

Taking the wheel with a deep, tired breath, Killian adjusted their course so that they were headed for Tortuga. To their right, he saw Elizabeth make the same correction. Ideally, he knew that they should drop anchor in order to discuss what would happen next, yet that conversation would have to wait.

His eyes settled on the horizon.

The sky was red as blood, and already the waves were beginning to rise to beat against the hull. Faint echoes of thunder gave the air a tense feel that he saw reflected in the crew's tight shoulders and snappish attitudes. "Go below and get some sleep, Mr. Turner," he said, glancing at Vincent. "You're to relieve me in three hours."

Vincent nodded. "Aye, Captain."

Killian used the next three hours behind the wheel to think, though his thoughts became decidedly more and more sluggish with each passing minute as exhaustion threatened to overtake him. His mind had nearly too much to catalogue. They had escaped the Locker and returned the heart, yet Killian still couldn't put away the subject completely. It was still entangled with too many feelings about his long-lost relative, previously cold and lecherous and now decidedly different and yet the same.

Killian didn't know if he could count Jones as an ally or not, and that troubled him.

So much had happened so fast that only now did he truly have time to think of what it meant. Aside from Jones, he still had the Commodore and Barbosa to consider. The Commodore was still chasing Elizabeth, yes, but what exactly did Barbosa want? Killian understood going after the heart purely for the power it brought, and yet he'd never heard a single story involving Hector Barbosa that didn't revolve around an ulterior, selfish motive. Killian wondered if he'd hoped that going after the heart would cure him of whatever cursed affliction he bore.

Yet neither the Commodore nor Barbosa were accounted for. Killian didn't know where they were or what exactly they wanted, and he didn't like that at all. Too many variables.

And then there was Jones's advice to sail to Shipwreck Cove, and there was only one reason why he would sail to that damnable place. The Brethren Court.

 _I imagine the seas are about to get rough._

That was no reason to call a meeting, and yet what were the odds, Killian thought, of the Pirate King, and three Pirate Lords chasing after the same object? All having some sort of dealing with Davy Jones?

Those weren't odds. Those were facts that meant something.

Something was brewing.

Killian looked at the sky yet again. The wind was picking up and the waves were growing, yet he was sure that they would make it to Tortuga before the storm broke. Once they were docked, that was when he would speak with Jack and Elizabeth to try to understand what the bloody hell was happening.

Yet by the time Vincent appeared, bleary-eyed but awake, Killian could think of nothing other than Emma in their bed and how undoubtedly warm it would be.

"You're relieved, Captain, sir," Vincent said as he approached the helm.

"Aye," Killian agreed. "Keep this course. Send someone down to inform me when we arrive in port."

"Yes, sir."

Killian nodded tiredly before trudging down the stairs, his footsteps heavy and slow. He paid attention to very little as he entered his quarters, pulling his shirt over his head and nearly tripping over himself to step out of his boots. And though he enjoyed nothing more than the thought of stripping off his pants in order to feel as much of his skin against Emma's as possible, he just didn't have the energy to bother with the laces.

Emma was asleep on her stomach, her head turned away from him, taking up the entire bed. Killian smiled sleepily as he slid into bed anyway, his arm falling heavily over her back. She reacted to the touch, contently arching her back like a cat with a heavy sigh before turning toward him. Though she didn't open her eyes, she reached out to grab his necklace to tug him closer to her. His other arm slid under the pillow beneath her head as she buried her face in his neck.

"Hey," she mumbled.

Killian was already asleep.

* * *

 **And there we go. Bit of action, bit of fluff, and just what is it that Davy Jones wants? We haven't seen the last of him, I promise.**

 **See you Friday,**

 **AC**


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Notes: Alright, alright, alright! It is yet another Friday afternoon, and I have yet another chapter for you lovely people! Seriously, I don't say it enough, but you guys are awesome and your reviews really make my day. Thank you so much.**

 **Lots of plot this chapter, but it's about time we figured out what was going on, yeah?**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Chapter 21

Emma finally bought Wallace and Vincent the drinks that she owed them.

They sat at a tavern in Tortuga, though it was a different one than last time. This time, it was the Jolly Sailor, and it was even rowdier than the Salty Dog. Since they had arrived, there had been three fights, two of which had ended in blood, and another that had resulted in death. The fatal fight had been an accident. Someone had slammed a bottle over someone else's head, and their drunken swing had hit the neck rather than the head, and the shattered glass had severed what Emma was willing to bet was the carotid artery.

The spray of blood was still on the wall, a good five feet arch that made her sick every time she looked at it.

So she sat in the very back, sandwiched between Killian and the wall as they talked over empty plates and full cups. Jack and Elizabeth sat across from them, though the couple suddenly seemed more like friends than lovers. Gone was the closeness that Emma had seen the night they'd celebrated Elizabeth's return. The two pirates sat near each other but at a respectable distance. Nothing at all like the way Killian's arm around her shoulder pressed them together and her hand rested on his knee beneath the table.

Emma wondered if they'd fought or if it was just Elizabeth and Jack being Elizabeth and Jack.

"I would go ahead and ask your question, Jones," Elizabeth finally said, startling Emma from her thoughts as she quickly glanced at Killian, who regarded Elizabeth steadily. "If you continue to bide your time, the opportunity will likely pass you by."

Killian took a drink. "Why would Davy Jones advise me to sail to Shipwreck Cove?"

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Now, that _is_ interesting," he said, shooting a pointed look at Elizabeth that the woman ignored. Emma watched the exchange curiously. So they were arguing. "Don't you think that's interesting, love?"

"Jack, we've discussed this," she hissed.

"Aye, but only all by our onesies, savvy? Might be good to hear another opinion."

"As long as it coincides with yours, of course."

"Hey," Emma interrupted, holding up a hand. "What the hell is Shipwreck Cove?" She directed her question toward Killian, but it was Jack who answered.

"Shipwreck Cove is an island only known by us pirates," he explained. "You might call it our capitol, as it were. It's where the Court meets."

Emma arched an eyebrow. "Pirates have a Court?" she asked in disbelief, only to frown when Jack looked at Killian.

"Honestly, mate. Brilliant job you've done preparing her for this life," he said.

"I haven't exactly had the time," Killian argued.

"Well, you best find some because she doesn't look happy."

Emma rolled her eyes. "I just want to know what's going on," she said.

"Long ago the sea was not as free as it is now," Elizabeth explained. "There was a sea goddess, Calypso, who ruled the waters. However, like the sea, Calypso was prone to quick changes in temper, and she would bring terrible storms. Her anger continued to grow until the seas were too treacherous for even the best sailor to sail, and so Davy Jones, along with eight of the best captains, met at Shipwreck Cove in order to bind Calypso so that we could once again sail the seas."

"Each Captain declared themselves a Pirate Lord," Killian said. "With Jones as the Pirate King."

"And that Lordship was either passed down or taken," Jack finished. "Each Lord is denoted by a Piece of Eight, a token of sorts." He pointedly tapped a gold medallion in his hair. "Every so often, when the need arises, the Lords meet at the Brethren Court at the Cove. A need that I'm sure you can acknowledge, your Majesty," he said to Elizabeth.

Emma's brows rose. "Wait, _you're_ the Pirate King? I thought that was Jones."

"He can only come on land for one day every ten years. Even for a pirate that's too inconsistent. I was voted King at the last meeting years ago," she said. She looked at Jack. "And I'm still not certain that a meeting of the Court is the wisest course of action."

"Calypso is free, isn't she?" Killian guessed.

"Tia Dalma contacted me last night," Elizabeth admitted. "She's a powerful witch and a friend to the Court. You've noticed how strange the seas have become," she said, glancing at Killian. "It's not natural."

"So we've got an angry goddess who probably wants all us pirates dead, don't we?"

"Yes."

Killian looked at Jack. "I'm with Sparrow. Call a meeting."

Elizabeth huffed. "In case the both of you have forgotten, Calypso is still revered by the majority of pirates, and if the legends are true, which I have no doubt that they are, she has the ability to grant any wish to a sailor that she deems worthy."

"For a price," Killian argued.

"Yes, and how many pirates do you know that are smart enough to deny their own greed?" Elizabeth snapped. "Even Davy Jones wasn't clever enough. He cut out his own heart as payment."

Emma frowned, trying to absorb all the information. "Still," she said. "Look, if Calypso can give you whatever you want, even for a price, that's dangerous. There's a reason why we don't always get what we want, and it's because if we did, the world would be even more fucked up than it already is." She ignored the way Jack's brow rose and Killian smirked. She focused on Elizabeth. "If you don't call a meeting and try to do some damage control, it'll be chaos once the word gets out." She glanced between the three pirates. "Is there any way we can bind her again?"

"That would be something to discuss at the Court," Elizabeth admitted reluctantly. "Tia Dalma insinuated that there was a way, yet it would require a sacrifice that no man would be willing to make."

"What sacrifice?"

"She wouldn't say."

"Helpful," Killian scoffed.

Emma pinched his thigh. He wasn't being helpful, either. She pinned Elizabeth with a calculating look. "So, let me get this straight," she said. "You've got all the reason in the world to call the Court together, but you're hesitating. Sounds to me like you're more worried about someone taking your crown."

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. "Am I?"

"See, from what I can tell, it sounds like there's gonna be a lot of people willing to throw in their lot with Calypso. I mean, who wouldn't back a goddess who can give them whatever they want? Of course, that leads to a civil war, and you're odds just aren't looking that great."

To Emma's surprise, Elizabeth didn't glare. She didn't snap or curse. She didn't react at all. She merely sat and met Emma's gaze with a blank stare that held not even a twitch of emotion. Emma couldn't read anything in her eyes. Elizabeth's thoughts were flying too fast.

Then, finally, Elizabeth smirked. She took a sip of her wine, chuckling into the glass. "You'll make quite the pirate, Emma," she said. "I shall call a meeting." Glancing at Killian, she said, "We'll leave for Shipwreck Cove at dawn."

"Aye."

Elizabeth left to send word to the other Lords, leaving Jack to stare after her and shake his head. "I gave her the same argument last night," he complained as he pointed an accusing finger at Emma. "And the bloody wench listens to you."

"I'm sure it sounded more logical coming from me."

"No, no, no. That's not what this is. This is a just Swans being . . . Swans. Sticking together like a little flock of . . . woman."

"Woman?"

"Aye. Big woman. Powerful woman." He flapped his arms like wings. "Stubborn woman."

"Jack," Emma said slowly. "Remember how Elizabeth shot at you?"

His eyes turned wary. "Aye."

Emma just smiled, entirely too calm, and he pointed in a random direction over his shoulder. "I'm going over there."

Killian watched Jack leave with a pleased smile before turning his head to nuzzle Emma's hair. "Well done, love," he praised. "I always knew there was a pirate in you."

"Don't think you're off the hook, buddy," she said. "Come on. Let's go back to the ship."

She stood, grabbing his hand, and Killian willingly followed after her. "You know, darling, it's when you say things like that that I have a hard time believing I'm in trouble."

"Oh, you're in trouble. Big trouble."

"Are you going to punish me, Swan?" She glared at him. He winced. "Unfortunately not, I gather."

Emma led him to the _Jolly_ in silence, weaving through the hectic crowd and keeping an eye out for stray bullets. When they reached the docks, Emma eyed the sea warily, watching the way the waves climbed the sides of the ships strangely like searching claws. The wind was heavy and crisp and reminded her more of a scream. By the time she was in the cabin, her hair was a windblown mess and her clothes were damp from the sea spray.

She dropped Killian's hand. "Why didn't you tell me you were a Pirate Lord?"

"That's what this is about?" Killian asked with a frown. "Love, when was I supposed to tell you? There are a lot of things that you don't know about me, just as I'm sure there hundreds of things that I do not know about you."

Emma sighed and put her hands on her hips. "I know, I know," she said, frustrated. "I'm just . . . I'm tired." She plopped down onto the bed. "Everything's just happening too fast. I need a break."

"Aye," Killian agreed as he cautiously sat next to her. "I know what you mean. After this, I say we find an island. Just you and me."

Emma smiled. "What about the crew?"

"We'll drop them in some port. They'll be fine. Now," he took her hand, "what's on your mind, love?"

"Everything," she mumbled. "I'm just . . . it's like this whole time I've been here, I've been studying for a test. But I just keep learning more and more stuff and I can't fit it all in my brain. First it's Davy Jones and a freaking heart in a box and then my hand is glowing and now there's a _vengeful sea goddess_."

Killian grinned. "If it makes you feel any better, Swan, I promise my life is not typically so . . . illustrious."

Emma snorted. "No that doesn't make me feel better, actually, because that means it's _me_."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

She smiled faintly. "You're sweet for a Pirate Lord."

Killian scoffed before falling back onto the bed and pulling her down with him. Emma tangled her legs with his and contentedly laid her head on his chest. Her fingers began to play with the charms on his necklace as his danced over the swell of her hip. "Where's your token?" she asked.

"Let's say I didn't get my ear pierced for vanity," he replied, causing Emma to sit up so she could look at the black earring that she had noticed the second she met him. "Even though," he added. "It makes me look even more dashing than usual."

"Who gave it to you?"

Killian's fingers stilled on her hip. "No one, love," he admitted. "I took it for myself."

Emma didn't frown. She was very proud of that. She fought for an expressionless look instead. "You killed someone for it," she said.

"Aye."

"Who?"

"Swan—"

"I'm not judging, Killian," she said, surprised by her honesty. It was strangely easy to accept that he'd killed someone for an earring as long as it was in the past. "I just want to know." She flicked the earring lightly. "It's part of you."

Killian closed his eyes, but his hand began to move over her skin once again, slipping under her shirt to rub the small of her back. Emma thought the action was more a comfort for him than for her. "His name was Beckett. He was a ruthless man. Young, like me. I'd hardly been sailing under a pirate flag for a year before I heard tales of the Brethren Court and the Pieces of Eight. It was a strategic move, on my part. I needed the power the title would give me." He glanced at her. "I still had too much of a reputation as an officer," he said. "Less of a pirate, and more like a rebellious child. I wanted to set things straight."

"I found out that he came to Tortuga once a month. He kept a few whores in one of the brothels, and he could never stay away long." Killian flinched. "He wasn't a good man, Emma," he said, needing to make sure that she knew that. "I'd planned to catch him off-guard at the brothel, but he arrived earlier than I expected and by the time I got there, he was already with one of the lasses. She was screaming. I'd have killed him for that alone."

Emma began to trail her fingers in random patterns over his chest. "Sounds like he deserved it," she said.

Killian didn't agree nor disagree. "I killed him, took the earring. Bloody bastard didn't even wear it. Kept it in a leather pouch in his pocket."

"What about the girls?"

"I bought them a room at one of the nicer taverns," he said. "Gave them enough gold to leave town, if they wanted."

Emma smiled fondly. "Good form, Captain," she said, but when he didn't immediately respond with a quip, she frowned. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to upset you."

Killian managed a faint smile. "Not your fault, love. The stories of my past are rarely light."

"I still want to know all of them."

"I know. Can't quite believe it, but I know."

"What do you think is going to happen? At Court."

"I don't know, Swan, yet I have a feeling that it won't end well." Killian frowned. "Elizabeth's right to worry. By no means are the Lords loyal to her. She's only King because when it came to a vote, instead of voting for himself like everyone else, Jack voted for her. Or so the story goes."

Emma smirked. "That sounds like him." She looked up at him. "Whose side are you on?"

His arm tightened around her. "I'm on our side, love."

She sighed as she once again began to fiddle with the charms on his necklace. Eventually, she said, "You know that bad feeling you have? I've got it, too."

* * *

Hector Barbosa was a man who always knew what he wanted and how he planned to get it. He was a man unburdened by love or remorse. He only knew his greed and his pride, both of which easily served to help him gain what he desired and yet also threatened to end him. The latter was something he rarely thought about, and so when opportunity struck, he didn't pause to think that he might be making a terrible mistake.

Losing the key to the chest had enraged him. Being bested by that fool Killian Jones had been an insult. A fluke. A stroke of luck. Yet it had ultimately cost him the heart of Davy Jones, and so his hope to find a cure for his blasted curse had been squashed.

His alliance with Norrington had deteriorated quickly. Without promises of controlling the seas with the heart, the Commodore had no reason to stand his presence and had attempted to throw him overboard. Yet Barbosa had experience with mutinies, and it had taken him little effort to turn a crew of Naval sailors into rotten pirates. A few promises here, some trickery there.

It was all too easy.

He'd made Norrington walk the plank. Stupid ponce had done it as if the wooden slat had been paved with gold.

So he had let Killian Jones and Jack Sparrow dive into the Locker. He trusted that they would retrieve Elizabeth and return. Even he wasn't so blinded to admit that Sparrow had the brains and Jones the tenacity to make it out of the Locker alive. And he knew the moment that they had succeeded.

A ripple of pure power had shuddered across the waves the moment they had returned. Immediately, the seas had begun to churn, the wind to howl, and Barbosa knew exactly what that meant. The heart had been returned to Davy Jones, and so the curse had been broken.

Calypso was free.

Calypso, who just so happened to be able to grant any wish.

Barbosa stood at the water's edge on a lone stretch of beach, the lights and sounds of Tortuga behind him. The water continued to lap at his boots, like a curious tongue, but he only walked further into the surf. Then he knelt and took off his hat. "Calypso," he called. "I come before ye as naught but a servant. Long have I awaited your freedom so that I may sail under your flag. I humbly ask that you grant me an audience."

Seconds passed without any sign that his words had been heard, and yet Barbosa still waited. His patience paid off. The wind suddenly began to shriek, and the waves roared, spinning up in a cyclone of water until with a splash, a woman stood before him. She looked like a nymph with willowy limbs and a sharp smile.

Flame red hair swayed in the breeze, falling over one eye as she cocked her head and studied him intently. "Your intentions are not pure, pirate," she said. "Though your kind know nothing of purity."

"Aye, that much is true," Barbosa agreed. "I admit I called ye here for me own selfish reasons."

She stared at him, unblinking. "You are cursed by Death."

"That I am."

"You wish me to undo it."

"I do."

"No."

"I thought ye might say that, milady," he said. "And so I'm here to warn ye."

"Warn me?" Calypso laughed. It sounded like wind chimes. "Of what, might I ask?"

"The Brethren Court intends to meet in order to bind you once more."

The change that came over the goddess was abrupt and monstrous. Her skin suddenly darkened to an ugly green, her teeth elongating into fangs as she screeched in rage. The sea soared up behind her in a tidal wave that crashed against the docks, snapping the beams and causing the whole structure to crack and collapse.

Barbosa did not flinch. In fact, he smiled.

"Curse that Davy Jones!" she hissed. "He will not trap me again. He will not. He will not. He's just a petty man with hurt feelings. I will not be a prisoner in my own realm."

"I have a proposal, milady," Barbosa said.

She glared at him. "Speak it."

"I am one of the eight Pirate Lords," he explained. "I hold great sway amongst the rest, who hold no love for the current King. I can assure you that they will willingly sail under your banner. You may not know it, but you have a ready army. Because you can be assured that Davy Jones will come for you again, to finish the job, and this time he has help."

Calypso hissed. "From who?"

Barbosa's answering smile was nasty. "His grandson," he said. "Killian Jones. And I believe, milady, that you know what that means. Jones has everything he needs to kill you."

"I cannot be killed. I am immortal."

"What a coincidence, so am I, and here's where I name my terms."

"You insolent fool!"

Calypso raised her arm, and a stream of water whipped from her hand to wrap around Barbosa's face. It would have drowned an ordinary man, yet Barbosa only laughed. "You can't kill me, milady," he said. "So you'll just have to listen to what I have to say."

The water fell away from his face, and he smiled. "I know what you want most. As it just so happens, I want the same thing."

"And what is that?"

"Vengeance. Power. Everything," he said simply. "I want everything."

"What makes you think I will give it to you?"

"Because I can get you an army," Barbosa said. "At the Court, I can stand against the King and her allies, few that they are, and draw a line in the sand. And when the battle comes, all you have to do is wipe them out."

"And what do you get out of this?"

"I get to be King," Barbosa said with a smile. "I get to have a fleet of ships to call my own."

Calypso scowled. "I fail to see how this benefits me."

"Aye, you see, milady, if you take up arms against the Brethren, then I will be sure that you are never threatened again." Barbosa smirked. "I'll kill Killian Jones."

A wide, slow smile spread across Calypso's face. "Aye," she said. "You have a deal, pirate."

* * *

 **So, just to make sure we're on the same page.**

 **1) Calypso is free because Jones has his heart back. More on that later. 2) Barbosa is a selfish bastard. 3) Somehow Killian is the key to killing Calypso once and for all. More on that later.**

 **Now you just get to wonder the hows and whys!**

 **In the meantime, next time in _Run, Baby Run_ . . . "I wonder what the world would think if they knew that the dread pirate Killian Jones liked to cuddle." - Emma**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	22. Chapter 22

**Author's Notes: Hello all, and welcome to another chapter! I can't believe we're this far into the story already, but strap in, folks, this is only the first story arc of 3. So, let's see how Emma and her magic are gonna come into play, shall we?**

 **Disclaimer: Don't own it. Not mine.**

* * *

Chapter 22

Emma felt ridiculous.

She sat on the bed with her legs folded beneath her and clutched a candle between her hands, glaring at the wick and willing it to light. She'd been staring for at least five minutes without even a bit of smoke to show for her efforts. Perhaps Jones had been wrong. So what if her hand had glowed and some papers had blown around and _some candles had fucking lit_.

Maybe she didn't have magic.

Maybe she was normal.

The sail to Shipwreck Cove was a three-day journey. Emma had used the first day to organize her thoughts. She had worked very little on deck and felt only a small smidgen of guilt about squirreling away in the crow's nest. But dammit, she had a lot to think about, and her nest was the best place to do that.

So she had sat and stared and thought, arms around her legs, chin propped on her knees. Life had changed entirely too quick, she thought. So fast that she'd had little choice but to just go with it, to take it in stride. If she'd stopped to think about it, _really_ think about, Emma knew that she never would have left Queen's Port. She would have stubbornly stayed, determined to find her way out of the damn Renaissance Fair she'd been dumped in, probably with her cell phone waving in the air as she tried to get reception.

When it came to survival, Emma hadn't had a choice but to embrace her new world, however strange and nonsensical and just plain weird.

So she had.

But every now and then, it sort of crept up on her, the fact that she'd barely been in the Enchanted Forest for two months and _so much had changed_.

She was on a pirate ship. She'd been to Davy Jones's Locker. She'd held a beating heart locked in a magical box. Her hand had _glowed_.

And now there was a vengeful sea goddess.

And Emma found it terribly strange, perhaps even terrifying, that she was growing used to it. The ridiculous. The fantastical. It was becoming normal. Expected.

It just wasn't right.

It _wasn't_ normal.

Some days, in some moments, Emma wanted nothing more than to go back to Tallahassee. She understood Tallahassee. She understood her place, her life, her role in the damn universe.

Then she would think about Killian.

And all those thoughts, whatever they were, would abruptly vanish.

Because she _did_ understand _him_.

He was the biggest surprise the Enchanted Forest had brought her. Emma hadn't thought she'd ever meet anyone again she'd be willing to trust. She hadn't planned on letting anyone even get close. She'd made a promise to herself the day she'd walked out of prison, and she'd kept it for five years without one hiccup.

Then she just had to walk into that tavern, and he just had to be there with all of his _good form_.

The walls that she'd fought so hard to fortify and seal had shivered with just a look from him. Those sincere blue eyes and his damn lips on her knuckles. More like a gallant knight than a dashing rapscallion. Then he'd gone out of his way to help her home, only to offer her a place on his ship, in _his_ home, without much thought. And he'd been so determined, he'd been willing to ask her again and again and then one more time after that.

He'd pursued her, gone after her. No one had ever done that.

And he just kept doing what no one had ever done.

He put her first. He understood her. He understood her walls because he had walls of his own. And he _listened_. And sometimes he pushed. Sometimes he wouldn't let her hide. He wouldn't relent until she gave in.

No one had ever cared enough to just _try_ with her.

It really wasn't a surprise, she supposed, when she thought about it, that he had slipped past her walls.

She . . . she _cared_ about him. She cared about him more than she had ever cared about anyone.

And it had only been two months.

It was at that point that Emma had laughed to herself because at that point, there wasn't much else for her to do.

Yet her thoughts had inevitably drifted back to the matter at hand, to their journey to Shipwreck Cove, to the Brethren, to Calypso, and that godawful feeling in her gut that nearly made her sick.

So she left the crow's nest with a singular thought in mind.

Maybe her glowing hand hadn't been a fluke. Maybe she had magical powers. Maybe she could use them to help.

Hence the unlit candle in her hands.

Emma scowled and threw the candle toward the stairs just as Killian came down. He eyed the candle at his feet with mild curiosity before he bent to pick it up. "I hate this candle, too," he said mildly, smiling a little when Emma scoffed in annoyance.

Keeping the candle in his hand as he shrugged out of his coat, he tossed the rain-slicked leather over his desk chair. Emma frowned as he shook out his hair. "How bad is it out there?" she asked.

"It's a bloody nightmare," Killian said as he tugged his boots off his feet. "We have a rather pissed goddess on our hands. I've never seen waves like this in all my life." As he spoke, the ship shuddered, and he glanced at the ceiling above him. "I doubt I'll be sleeping much tonight."

"Who's at the helm?"

"Vincent. He's a natural, but young yet," he said as he tipped water out of his boot. "I don't trust him at the wheel for too long in seas like this."

After he wrung out his socks, eyeing them disdainfully before hanging them over the arm of his chair, he picked up the candle from his desk and sidled over to the bed, sitting behind her with one leg still on the floor. He held the candle out to her. "Just what is it you're trying to accomplish, love?"

Emma huffed as she took it from him. "I was trying to light it."

"With your magic?"

She sighed and tilted her head back. "How can you say that like it's a thing?"

Killian smirked. "I thought it _was_ a thing, Swan."

"Yeah, but it's a weird thing," she complained. "And it's not working."

"I'm surprised you're trying at all. I'd thought you would ignore it like all the other _things_ you don't like to think about."

Emma grimaced. "Yeah, well. I did a lot of thinking yesterday."

"I noticed. And what did you think about?"

"A lot of things," she said lightly, and he chuckled.

"Okay, then, Swan," he said as he slid behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist. His chin rested cutely on her shoulder. Emma stared at him curiously, wondering what he was up to, but he only glanced up at her and said, "Well, what are you waiting for, darling? Light the bloody candle that has wronged you so monstrously."

Emma snorted, but she smiled in the next second. She stared at the candle in her hands, willing it light, feeling a strange need to impress Killian now that she had an audience. Yet nothing happened. She stared harder, willed harder, and yet the wick remained stubbornly bare.

Killian felt her grow tenser with each second that passed until she felt like a statue in his arms. He knew little of magic, but he doubted Emma would ever make progress if she didn't find a way to relax. He didn't need any more incentive to press his lips to her neck and suck gently at her pulse point. Emma shuddered in surprise, her breath catching in her throat. He grinned against her skin.

"What are you doing?" she asked. "I'm trying to focus, here."

"You're focusing too hard, love," he murmured before kissed under her jaw. "You need to relax, and just . . . let it happen. You can do this."

"If I just let _this_ happen, nothing will get done."

"Oh, I disagree, Swan."

Emma rolled her eyes and then closed them with a sigh when his hand cupped her breast. "I need to focus a _little_ ," she insisted. "So keep your hands to yourself."

"Fine," Killian agreed, though he gave her breast a loving squeeze before his hand returned to her waist. His mouth, however, stayed against her skin, his nose edging around the collar of her shirt ( _his_ shirt). "You focus, darling. I'll be right here."

She groaned, and he smiled. "Just feel it, Emma," he encouraged. "The other day, how did it feel?"

"Are you kidding? I was panicking. You don't want me to burn your ship."

"No," Killian agreed. "But everything's an emotion, Swan. Find whichever one works for you, something strong," he kissed her collarbone, "something fierce."

Emma's heart warmed at his words, and despite her best efforts, she still found her eyes closing contentedly as Killian's lips continued to work against her neck. He was gentler than he'd ever been. Their embraces were usually lustful and passionate, with little sharp nips and soothing tongues. This was different. This was just _nice_ in the best possible way. Because there was nothing fueling his attentions other than the simple fact that he _could_. Killian could kiss her just because he wanted to.

He wasn't after anything more, didn't expect anything more. He just wanted to kiss her.

And she couldn't remember feeling more special.

"Swan." She hummed as his lips stilled behind her ear. "Emma, love. Look."

Emma opened her eyes and gasped.

Not only was the candle in her hands lit, but so was every other candle in the room. Her eyes beamed just as brightly as the little flames scattered across the cabin. "I did it!" She grinned, turning to look at Killian who gave her a warm, proud smile.

"Aye," he said. "I see that." His eyes narrowed slightly, teasing. "What did you think of?"

Emma blushed. "None of your business," she muttered, turning away from him.

Killian chuckled as he tightened his arms around her, pressing her more firmly against his chest. "I don't think so, love," he said. His lips returned to her neck. "Tell me."

She shook her head. Or tried. But he suckled lightly where her neck met her shoulder, and her head fell limply to the side to give him better access. "No," she said.

"Swan."

"Killian."

"No need to be shy, darling."

"I'm not being shy."

"Stubborn, then."

His hands began to wander. She shuddered. "I thought I told you no hands," she said, even as one of her own reached back to slip into his hair to keep his head at her neck.

"That was when you were trying to light the candle," he said. "The candle's now lit."

"Pirate."

He hummed happily. "Now, Swan, tell me . . . what did you think of?"

Emma wasn't brave enough to tell him. Words weren't her forte, particularly the ones that mattered. She had so little practice saying them.

So she turned her head to meet his too-knowing gaze and that smug smirk and kissed him, biting his lip when he began to laugh. Killian pulled away with a grin that faltered slightly when he met Emma's plainly conflicted gaze. "Swan?"

But she didn't say anything. Instead her arms wrapped around him and she laid her head on his shoulder. He hugged her back without a thought, his hand rubbing her back comfortingly despite his confusion. "What is it, love?"

Emma sighed. "I just . . . I don't want anything to happen to you."

Her words made him pause in surprise. He hadn't had anyone to worry about him in so long that Emma's concern for him was almost novel. He gave her a tender smile that she couldn't see. "Don't worry about me, love. I've survived an angry lass or two in my day."

Emma snorted but her amusement faded quickly. Her arms tightened around him. "An angry goddess is a little different, don't you think?"

"It'll be alright, Swan. We'll bind Calypso once more, and then we'll find that island, hmm?"

He would have said more but the ship shook violently as it hit a wave. He reluctantly loosened his hold around her and pulled back, and they both looked up at the ceiling as the ship shuddered once again. "Looks like they could use you up there, Captain," Emma said.

"Aye," he said, though he made no immediate attempt to move.

"Hey." She nudged his shoulder. "We won't make it to that island if the ship sinks."

Killian leveled her with one last concerned look before he sighed and stood. Emma immediately followed, and when he raised his eyebrows, she shrugged. "What? You don't think I'm letting you go out there alone, do you?"

She reached down to pull on her boots.

"Swan, it's a bloody typhoon out there."

"Uh huh." She looked at the windows, shaking in their frames from the pounding rain. "I see that."

"Emma—"

"I don't have any plans to get swept off deck again," she said quietly, knowingly, as she stood and grabbed her coat.

"You're not going on deck."

"What? You can't—"

"You're taking the helm with me."

"I'm what?"

"What do you say, Swan?" Killian asked with a slight grin as he shrugged into his coat. "Want to sail through your first storm?"

He didn't wait for her answer. He only grabbed a fresh pair of socks before pulling on his boots, then he was taking her hand and leading her up to the deck. The rain was coming down sideways in a cold spray of water that stung her eyes. Each wave rocked the _Jolly,_ sending torrents of water over the rails. Killian was barking orders as soon as his feet hit the deck, his voice miraculously carrying over the wind.

Vincent stood at the wheel, clutching the spokes as he tried to keep the ship steady. His shoulders sagged in relief when he saw Killian climbing the stairs. "That'll be all Mr. Turner," he shouted.

"Aye, sir!"

It spoke to the strength of the storm and the chaos on deck that Vincent didn't even glance at Emma as he passed.

Killian gripped the wheel. "Oi, get over here, Swan!"

Emma found herself between Killian and the wheel in the next moment, her hands clenched around the spokes. The wheel threatened to slip out of her fingers with each wave, jerking in her grip with each crest, and already her arms were burning from the strain. "Killian," she called worriedly.

He gripped the spokes next to her, tightening his hold to take a little more of the strain. "Don't focus, love," he said in her ear. "Feel it."

"It's not the same!"

"I'm right here."

It was the right thing to say. He was right there, right behind her, holding the wheel with her. Logically, Emma knew that he wouldn't let anything happen. He would take over completely if he really needed to, and that reassurance was enough to let her relax just a little. So she listened as he talked her through taking the waves at an angle and how important it was for the bow to lift with the waves instead of plowing into them.

With each minute that passed, she began to understand what Killian meant about feeling the ship. But it wasn't just the ship. It was the waves, it was the wind, it was the rain in her eyes, and Killian's voice in her ear. She felt it all—the wind smacking against the sails, the groan of the ship as it pitched and rolled, Killian's warm laughter whenever they crested a big wave.

Eventually, inevitably really, Emma started to laugh, too.

She didn't feel fear. She felt free. She felt powerful. She felt alive.

She understood perfectly now, how Killian could love the sea as much as he did.

This was freedom.

* * *

Emma stayed at the wheel until early in the morning when the storm broke. Killian had eventually left her to steer the ship all on her own, and it had been comical for her to see him working the deck with the rest of the crew, hauling lines and trimming sails. More than once she'd nearly stabbed the bow into a wave because she was watching him.

The man was a damn good sailor.

He dismissed the men on deck to their bunks, and when the second crew came up, he immediately began assigning tasks, appointing Bee to man the helm. The big man lumbered up the steps to the quarterdeck with a smile as he spotted Emma behind the wheel. "I'm to relieve you, milady," he said.

Emma relinquished the wheel with a flash of regret. "Consider me relieved," she said with a faint smile.

"You're turning into a hell of a sailor."

She shrugged. "I've got a few good teachers."

Bee chuckled, the sound warm and low. "I'll take the compliment, milady."

"I was talking about Vincent."

"Ha! That little scallywag might've taught ya how to tie a decent knot, but I'm the one who showed you the ropes."

Emma laughed and left him at the wheel. She had hardly reached the stairs before she heard him begin to sing quietly to himself, going through the first verse of a song that Emma had memorized by the end of her third day aboard. She smiled as she sung under her breath, "Drink up me hearties, yo ho."

Killian was pulling his shirt over his head when she stepped off the stairs into the cabin. She smiled as she wrapped her arms loosely around his waist, letting her head rest neatly between his shoulders. His abs tensed briefly under her touch and his back straightened in surprise. She sighed, full of exhaustion and contentment, and pressed an absent kiss to his shoulder where the scars on his back were the thickest.

"Thank you," she said.

"For what, Swan?"

"Everything."

Killian hummed happily, reaching behind him to pull her around to face him. Her hands slid up his arms and over his shoulders to rest lightly on either side of his neck. Her thumb brushed the scruff along his jaw. "You let me steer your ship," she said. "In the middle of a storm. Why?"

"You have your magic," he explained, running a hand up her back until it tangled in her hair. "And I have mine."

Emma leaned in until her nose brushed his. "It's a good feeling," she said.

"Aye, love. Very good."

Killian pressed his lips to hers softly. She was incredible, his Swan. Seeing her at the helm of his ship had done something to him, awoken something in him. It was an overwhelming feeling of certainty. She was it. She was absolutely it for him.

He was completely and wholly in love with Emma Swan.

And he wanted to tell her. He wanted to tell her that there was no one he would rather sail with than her. He wanted to tell her that he would never be able to love another like he loved her, because absolutely no one but her could make him believe he could rise above _good form_ to be a _good man_.

He wanted to tell her, but he was terrified that she would run despite her promises.

So he tried, with every ounce of his being, to tell her without saying the words. And maybe, just maybe, when all the candles in the room suddenly flamed to life, it meant that somewhere inside she knew, and she understood.

* * *

Emma woke up very warm and very trapped.

One of Killian's arms served as her pillow with the other wrapped around her to lay snugly against her breasts. Her legs were so tangled in his that she had no idea which way to move in order to undo them, and his firm chest against her back and his morning erection against her ass was just incentive to stay right where she was.

Because right where she was felt pretty damn good.

She smiled sleepily at his warm breath fanning the back of her neck. Just by listening to him, she knew that he was still asleep. Light was just beginning to come in through the windows, and with his ridiculously precise internal clock, she knew Killian would wake up in minutes without prompting.

So she decided to use that time to think. She absently began to trail her fingers over his arm that held her against him, feeling the strength beneath his skin, and remembering the way he had worked the rigging, pulling and tying the ropes with a skill that made the task look painfully easy. It had been strangely beautiful to watch him work the deck of the ship that he so clearly loved.

But it was the kiss that she thought about most. There had been something different about it, something new and thrilling. It had been almost unbearably tender and soft. Loving.

The sensation had left her feeling strangely small. Vulnerable. She remembered that her hands had shook before she had slipped one into his hair and the other had clutched his necklace.

But she had also felt undeniably warm. Inside and out.

She felt Killian's breathing change. "Morning," she said quietly. The sound that left his throat in answer was caught between a groan and hum. His arm beneath her head came up so that he could rub soothing circles into her shoulder with his thumb. Emma was now even more trapped yet she didn't care. She smiled instead. "I wonder what the world would think," she mused, "if they knew that the dread pirate Killian Jones liked to cuddle."

His lips were suddenly pressed against the sensitive skin behind her ear. "They'd never believe it," he said, voice low and gravelly with sleep, and the sound went straight between her legs. "You underestimate my reputation, love." His lips moved to the underside of her jaw where he sucked lightly. "And I only _cuddle_ ," she smiled at the faint hint of disdain in his voice, "with you."

His arm around her waist slipped beneath her shirt, fingers dancing across her stomach and over her ribs. She sighed into his touch when he cupped her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple. "And why's that?" she sighed.

"Because, Swan," he held her tighter and pressed his hips firmly against her, "it brings me great _pleasure_ to hold you."

Emma was hopeless not to press back with a subtle roll of her hips that had him hissing in her ear, "Tease."

She smiled as she turned onto her back so she could look at him. His blue eyes seemed especially bright, the smirk on his lips positively sinful. She wrapped her arms around him and he readily settled on top of her, meeting her halfway for a kiss that stoked a fire in her belly far too easily. Her nails dug lightly into his back, and he ground his hips into hers.

Emma gasped at the feel of him, and the memory of his talented fingers was suddenly tantalizingly vivid in her mind. She wanted more. She wanted more of him, everything he could possibly give. She wanted every inch of him.

But just as she opened her mouth to tell him, someone banged on the hatch. "We've made it to the Cove, Captain!" Smee called.

Killian growled into her neck, the sound torn between defeat and annoyance. Emma regrettably removed her hand where her fingers had just begun to slip into his pants. "I'm going to make that fumbling buffoon walk the bloody plank," he declared, his lips brushing her skin.

"Captain? Is everything alright?"

Killian sighed in frustration as he lifted his head. "Aye, Mr. Smee," he answered. "Prepare to dock!"

They both waited until they heard Smee scamper away and then Killian promptly dropped his head onto her shoulder. "Swan," he complained.

She laughed. "Let's go, pirate."

He claimed her lips in a quick, bruising kiss that had her nails digging brutally into his shoulders. She made a sound of protest when he pulled away and abruptly lifted himself off of her. Emma sat up in bed with an amused smile on her face. She knew it was wrong, but she'd never seen him so painfully aroused and so his obvious frustration was only that much more amusing.

"You know, in my realm," she said, "this is called a cockblock."

Killian closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Just knowing that her lips moved around the word _cock_ only made him think about her lips moving around _his_ cock. "Swan," he warned. Or complained. Or threatened. Or pleaded.

He couldn't decide.

His eyes scanned the cabin as he tried to focus. Shirt. He needed a shirt. Where the hell was a shirt? He scanned the floor. None. He meant to walk toward the wardrobe to fetch one when a piece of fabric hit him in the back. He turned just in time to see a familiar black shirt hit the floor and a glimpse of Emma's bare breast before she covered herself with the bedsheets. She smirked. "There's a shirt," she said helpfully.

"Bloody hell, love," he groaned. "Have mercy on a poor pirate."

She had the gall to giggle.

He hated that he loved it.

The shirt still held remnants of her warmth, which only taunted him further as he slipped it over his head and felt that faint heat against his skin. Such a pale imitation compared to the woman still in his bed.

Fitting himself into his leathers was just a cruel joke.

But apparently his Swan thought it was genuinely funny, because she kept giggling behind him.

He glared at her as he pulled on his boots. "You realize that turnabout is fair play, darling," he warned. "Just you remember that."

"Oh, I will, Captain," she promised.

For a moment she thought (hoped) that he would launch himself at her, pin her to the bed, and fuck her into the mattress. His eyes flashed, and she swore she heard a growl in the back of his throat, but he only stared at her for a second more before clenching his jaw and striding toward the deck.

Emma watched him leave with a grin before she settled back onto her pillow with a small, happy huff. She wasn't quite sure where all her teasing had come from. She had never been a tease. With Neal she had been too inexperienced and lacked the confidence. Then the few one-night stands after him had been all about satisfaction and nothing more. It hadn't been about fun. It had been about scratching an itch.

Killian was different.

She felt free with him. Free to be confident, to be sexy. It was almost like playing. It felt like a game she played with her best friend. It was fun.

Feeling the ship slow, Emma quickly got out of bed and dressed. She twisted her hair into a loose braid with practiced fingers, tying off the end with a thin piece of leather. The mood when she reached the deck was tense with anticipation. Few had ever been to the notorious Shipwreck Cove.

It was an intimidating place, seemingly carved straight from the cliff face that jutted sharply into the water. Lights within the rock flickered like glowing eyes and even the wind seemed to whisper like a ghost. Everything about the pirate hub screamed danger, and with that realization the persistent feeling of foreboding that she had fought on and off for the last three days came rushing back with a vengeance.

Killian maneuvered the _Jolly_ into a slip at the dock next to the _Black Pearl_ and another ship called the _Empress_. He then ordered half of the crew to stay with the ship with Smee while he took the rest with him like an entourage. Yet as Emma walked beside him, she noted that each man had not been picked randomly.

Vincent was there for her specifically. She knew it by the way he trailed just behind her like a watchful Doberman. Ace was there for seniority. Collins and Olsen were two of the biggest men on the ship after Bee. They were the muscle. To her surprise, he'd also brought Wallace, and it wasn't until she'd spotted him absently flipping a knife in his hands and over his fingers that she knew why.

Killian led them through a maze of dark stone hallways, fighting the urge to take Emma's hand. He couldn't be seen like that. Soft. Weak. Let alone what it would do to Emma. If he walked in with her hand in his, he might as well paint the target on her back himself. His best bet was to let everyone assume she was something that she was decidedly _not_.

He just hoped that she wouldn't see _him_ any differently after this.

Meetings of the Brethren Court rarely ended well, and he knew this one would be no different when none other than Hector Barbosa greeted them at the door with a big, fake smile, "Captain Jones. I see you made it out of the Locker. Pity you couldn't stay."

* * *

 **Da da da dum.**

 **Oh, Barbosa, you lying, manipulative jerkface.**

 **In the next chapter of Run, Baby Run . . . "Worse? Everyone in that room wants him dead! I'm going back." - Emma**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	23. Chapter 23

**Author's Notes: Here we are, folks! Be prepared for plot and action. Oh, lots of action!**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Chapter 23

The Brethren Court met in a room that was in many ways no different than many others carved from within the cliff. Though considerably larger than the rest, the size of a small ballroom, it still felt small with its low ceilings and dark walls. Torches flickered against the walls for light, giving the room an eerie glow. The brightest spot in the room was dead center at a large, scarred table. Nine chairs sat around the table, one taller than the rest, and half of those chairs were already occupied.

The room itself was crowded. Not one of the Pirate Lords had come to the meeting alone, and so nearly a hundred deckhands moved throughout the room, one hand around a drink and another at their sword. Their voices were a loud hum in the air, almost like in a busy tavern, but there was little laughter and certainly no singing.

To Barbosa's delight, the only sound he could hear were arguments.

It hadn't taken any effort to plant the idea in their heads. He had only needed to let one sailor at the docks overhear him muttering about Calypso's return, and within hours the word had spread throughout the entire Cove. Some believed. Some thought it was rumor. Arguments about strange seas and mysterious sightings roared in the deceptively large space, echoing off the cold rock walls, and it was music to his ears.

"Jones is here," he heard someone say. "Saw him down by the docks."

It was nothing more than fortuitous timing that allowed Barbosa to reach the door just before Killian. He smiled at the younger Captain, falsely at first, though his lips gained a genuine, sinister edge when his eyes landed on Emma. Yet another opportunity presented, and such a lovely one, too. Perhaps after he killed Jones, he'd take her aboard his ship for entertainment.

"Captain Jones," he greeted. "I see ye made it out of the Locker. Pity you couldn't stay."

Killian's answering smile was mocking. "Life's full of disappointment, mate. Best get used to it."

He let Jones walk past him, smirking slightly when he noticed Jones's hand briefly reach toward Emma before falling back to his side. Even without the possessive touch, the way he pointedly kept himself between her and the entire room was a clue in itself. Jones actually cared for the wench. That made it even better.

Barbosa returned to his seat just as Elizabeth appeared from the back of the room. She wore brown leather pants with a blood red shirt beneath a dark blue vest that hugged her figure like a corset. She looked infinitely more polished than she had in the Locker. Her skin had regained some color, and her lips were no longer chapped. With her pretty face and her gently curled honey brown hair, Elizabeth Swann did not immediately look like a Pirate King.

Until she drew her pistol from her belt, pointed it at the ceiling, and fired.

The noise in the room ceased instantly. "Let's get started, shall we?" she suggested lightly. "I, Captain Elizabeth Swann, Pirate King, officially declare this a meeting of the Brethren Court."

Killian took his seat, carefully choosing a place in the middle with Jack two seats to his left. His eyes roved around the faces at the table, knowing names and reputations but not faces, a fact that was dealt with easily enough when Elizabeth announced each of them. He briefly studied each captain with a seemingly impassive gaze that only faltered when he met Barbosa's twitchy smirk directly across from him.

His only reaction was to narrow his eyes, even as his gut warned him that something wasn't right.

Elizabeth drew his attention by clearing her throat. "I'm sure you're wondering why I've called you here," she said. "We have an urgent matter to discuss. I know that some of you have heard the rumors about the sea goddess Calypso being free once more . . . those rumors are true."

"Bollocks," a Lord said from the end of the table. Cormack was his name. "It's impossible. Davy Jones himself locked her away."

"You're a piss-poor sailor if you can't recognize unnatural seas," another Lord shot back, sitting on Killian's right. He was the oldest at the table, grizzled and gray, but with shoulders as broad as an ox. "And you're an idiot to think that Davy Jones's magic isn't fallible."

"Captain Irons is right," Elizabeth cut in before Cormack could retort. "The magic that the first Brethren Court used to bind Calypso has broken."

"And how did that happen, might I ask?" Barbosa said quickly with a smarmy smile. "It's not as if any of us have been to the Locker recently."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. "The witch Tia Dalma assures me that it is possible to stop Calypso once more."

"Not stop. No, not stop," a lilting voice corrected. Weaving through the crowd to the table was a strange woman. While her mocha skin was flawless, her hair was a wild mass of dark curls and her black eyes seemed unusually wide and open, almost dazed, as she glanced around the table. "Not stop," she repeated. "Kill."

Jack raised his hand. "I have a question," he said, holding up a finger. "It is my understanding that Calypso being a goddess makes her immortal. Killing what can't die seems a bit . . . difficult."

"I did not say that you would be killing a goddess." Tia Dalma began to slowly circle the table, her too-seeing eyes stalking the room. There was something hypnotic about the way she moved that drew every eye. "To kill an immortal, one has to become mortal. There is magic that can do this. But it requires sacrifice."

"And what kind of sacrifice is that?" Killian asked, nearly managing to sound bored.

"Curious of you to ask, Captain Jones," Tia Dalma stopped walking as her eyes locked unwaveringly on him. "The sacrifice is one no man would willingly make. His heart. Davy Jones bound Calypso with his heart all those years ago, just as Calypso bound him to the sea. The same heart must make this sacrifice once more."

"Jones is still bound to the sea," Killian argued, though a thread of doubt lanced through him. "If what you're saying is true, just as Calypso was freed, so would he."

"Aye."

"I think we're all missin' a rather important point," Barbosa said as he abruptly rose from his chair to walk around the room. "Why are we jumping to kill the sea witch? Seems a bit rash not to consider all our options."

"Freeing the sea from Calypso's control is the best option for all of us, Barbosa," Elizabeth asserted firmly.

"That's a fine, logical opinion to have, your Majesty," Barbosa returned. "But let us not be hasty." He turned to the crowd. "Calypso may be prone to a few fits of temper, but who of us here haven't enjoyed a bit of a woman's fury before? We've all weathered a few storms, and the sea is always a'changin'. Why are we runnin' scared now?"

There were murmurs in the crowd. Barbosa barely resisted a smile as he continued, throwing his arms out. "We're not a bunch of cowards," he said. "We're pirates. And pirates know an opportunity when they see one. Aren't we forgettin' Calypso's greatest gift? She's got the power to grant wishes."

Jack shared a wary glance with Elizabeth before he too jumped to his feet. "Oh, yes, let's trust the sea witch to embrace us greedy, grimy, scallywags that locked her away in the first place."

"There is no way to know if the witch is truly free of her bonds," another Lord said quietly, but firmly. "None have seen her. This entire discussion is mere speculation at best."

"Aye, but that's where you're wrong," Barbosa said with a slow smile. "Because I _have_ seen her." His declaration was met with fierce whispers. "And I've spoken with Her Greatness, and I can tell ye, lads, she is more powerful than you could ever imagine. She has the power to cure even death, and I should know." He took a long, deep breath of air, truly tasting it for the first time in years. "She broke my curse, restored me to life as a flesh and blood man."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "And what did she ask for in return?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

" _Nothing_?"

"Yes, nothing!" Barbosa snapped before his broad, salesman smile appeared. "She asked for nothin' but my fealty, and it's something I've gladly given her. And she encouraged me to tell all of you that she would do the same for the rest of you rotten bastards!"

The air in the room began to vibrate with selfish possibility as every pirate in the room began to shout their agreement and their desires. Tucked away in the crowd yet pointedly behind Killian's chair, Emma felt her stomach drop with dread. Her skin crawled as she listened to those closest to her, shouting about treasures and promises of immortality and beautiful women. Yet those were tame, and as she continued to listen, fewer and far between.

What she heard most were threats.

Threats of vengeance, of justice, of retribution. She heard calls to arms to seize ships, to sink ships, to mutinies . . . every selfish desire a pirate could have, and Barbosa had offered instant gratification without price.

And everyone was falling for it.

"We can have it all, lads! The entire sea, our greatest desires, if only we pledge ourselves to Calypso," Barbosa continued. "Now, who's with me?"

The answering roar made Emma's blood run cold.

Elizabeth began to call for order but to no avail. Finally, she growled and lifted her pistol once again to the ceiling. She fired twice, sending a spray of splinters from the ceiling raining down on Jack, who frowned in annoyance as he shook the dust from his hat. "Silence!" Elizabeth glared at Barbosa for a heavy second before her eyes trailed threateningly over the entire room. "Before you throw in your lot with the ever so _honorable_ , Captain Barbosa," she sneered, "perhaps you should consider that we have no way to prove his claim is true."

"Oh, I can solve that easily, enough, love," Jack said as he quickly drew his own pistol and leveled it at Barbosa, only to have Barbosa's men react with cocked pistols of their own and drawn swords.

Jack's crew that he'd gathered in Tortuga reacted in the same second, and when Elizabeth rose, her own crew that had sailed the _Empress_ in her absence drew their blades, as well.

And then the air sang with metal as everyone in the room picked a side.

Three of the Captains on Barbosa's side of the table rose to his defense, along with Cormack at the end, who drew on Captain Iron's Crew, which made Killian—to Emma's surprise—rise to the eldest Captain's defense. She had thought he would side with Jack.

Then she remembered his words.

 _I'm on_ our _side, love._

Killian wasn't willing to draw a line in the sand. Not yet.

She was backed against the wall with Vincent's shoulders directly in her line of sight. She huffed in irritation as she drew her own blade and stepped out from behind him. Her eyes flicked from face to face, ready for an attack, until she caught a pair of black eyes. Tia Dalma stood peacefully in the chaos and gave her a secretive smile.

Emma frowned but before she could decipher what the witch could possibly mean, Barbosa's laugh drew her attention. The man stood without a single weapon in his hand as he faced the barrel of Jack's pistol. "We both know ya won't do it, Jack," he taunted. "Not like this. But I'll take you up on askin' for proof." He withdrew a knife from his belt and slit his palm. Blood dripped down his wrist as he held his hand up for everyone to see. "I've got blood in my veins again," he said. "And if you're still looking for proof I've been blessed by Calypso, ask Captain Jones. He ran me through just last week!"

Killian's jaw ticked. "I'll gladly do it again," he said.

"No, I don't suppose you'd mind giving it another go," Barbosa jumped onto Killian's words with a wide, feral smile. "After all, I doubt ye want the rest of us here knowin' what you know."

Though he had no clue what Barbosa meant, Killian merely cocked an unfazed eyebrow. "And what's that?"

"There's a particularly interesting reason why you want to kill Calypso, I think." Barbosa took a step forward. "It was Davy Jones that bound Calypso. Aye, that's true enough. But it's not his heart that will bind her again. His heart is dead. And if you're wantin' to make her mortal, well that means you'll need mortal blood. But not just any blood. No, it's got to be the same."

Emma made the connection just a second before Barbosa announced it to the entire room.

"It's a Jones' blood we'd be needin'." Barbosa grinned. "Isn't that right, Captain?" He turned toward the men that backed him. "You see, lads, Killian Jones isn't _just_ the youngest Pirate Lord of the realm . . . He's the grandson and sole _mortal_ heir of the one and only Davy Jones."

 _Fuck_.

Killian's mind raced as half of the room advanced on him like dogs straining on a leash. Yet he didn't move. He stared unblinkingly at Barbosa before casting a fleeting glance around the room. "However touched I am by your concern, Barbosa, my kinship with Davy Jones means very little to me," he said dryly with a slight smile. "And I would be careful, mate. I never said anything about killing Calypso."

"Then explain something to me," Barbosa entreated politely. "How can we trust you mean what you say when you're the one who returned the heart to Davy Jones?"

"If that were true, then that would also mean that I'm the one who released Calypso in the first place," Killian retorted, sounding impressively bored and annoyed. "So perhaps you should thank me."

"Ye still haven't picked a side."

"An astounding observation."

"I don't trust a pirate who won't pick a side."

"And I don't a trust a pirate who serves anyone other than himself."

"Perhaps the problem is the act of trusting in general," Jack interrupted lightly, only to have both Killian and Barbosa glare at him. "Just a thought," he said. "You see, I am a dishonest man," he continued. "And a dishonest man you can always trust to be dishonest. Honestly, it's the honest ones you have to watch out for," he said, pointing vaguely at Barbosa, though his eyes met Killian's briefly as he finished, "because you never know when they're going to do something incredibly stupid."

Killian and Jack fired their pistols at the same time, yet to Emma's surprise not one bullet went toward Barbosa. Killian's shot landed in the chest of one of Lord Cormack's entourage while Jack's shot hit a seemingly random deckhand on the other side of the room. And in the split second it took the room to react, Emma realized what the two had done. What was meant to look as an attack was actually a diversion.

As Cormack's crew surged to attack Killian, they ran into Irons's crew first, which drew the men away from the door and allowed Vincent to roughly shove her toward the exit, all while Jack's shot pit everyone against the other out of sheer necessity. Emma looked over her shoulder as Vincent continued to push her forward, and upon seeing no one behind them, immediately began to struggle against him.

"I'm not leaving them," she argued, jerking her hand from his grasp. "Vincent, I can't leave him."

Vincent stared at her incredulously. "I don't bloody well care, Emma. I'm followin' orders," he snapped, grabbing her hand again. "Let's go."

"He's going to get himself killed!"

"The Captain can take care of himself. He's survived worse."

"Worse? Everyone in that room wants him dead! I'm going back."

"The hell you are!"

Emma raised her sword to his chest. "Don't make me do it," she warned. "Please, don't."

Vincent's eyes narrowed, though his lips twitched in surprise. "You won't do it, Emma," he said. "You're not like the rest of us."

"Maybe not," she agreed. "But I'm not leaving here without him. So either you help me or go. Warn the crew. Tell them to prepare to get underway."

"Emma—"

The sounds of fighting grew louder.

"Go," she snapped.

"If I let you go and you die, he'll kill me."

"That won't happen. Trust me." Emma glanced at her hands. "I've got a few tricks up my sleeve."

* * *

Every ounce of finesse that Killian wielded with a blade had been traded for pure, blunt force. This was no duel. This was a melee.

Blades struck at him from all sides in such a random array that it was impossible for all of them to be aimed for him, yet he was nonetheless forced to find some way to parry the greater majority. It was impossible to defend against them all. His arm burned from a cut and his right leg protested his weight with every step from a gash on his thigh.

His thick leather coat protected his back and his sides from swords, but it did little to stop the stray bullet that clipped his collarbone.

He'd lost sight of Jack minutes ago and hoped that the pirate made it out alive. He owed the potentially mad man. Only insanity could lead a man to believe that causing this mayhem would be his best chance at getting out alive. A diversion had been Killian's only option. No one would have let him leave the Court alive if he hadn't made the first move.

It wouldn't have mattered what he said. Barbosa had made him a threat. Leaving him be, even if he had no intention of killing Calypso, was simply a risk that no pirate would be willing to take. Not when they felt they had the world at their feet.

And so he had stalled, trying desperately to think of a solution, to find a way to get Emma out at the very least. He refused to think of what would become of her if he were killed and she was left to the Court, and when he'd just managed to glimpse her blonde hair twirling around the doorframe, the relief he'd felt could have brought him to his knees if he'd let it.

And so you could imagine his consternation when he saw that same blonde hair ducking under a blade.

Emma furiously fought her way to Killian. He was just a few feet to her left but with at least three swords coming at her, it felt like a few miles. She ducked under a blow that would have taken her head and then sprang up to parry the next blow, shoving the sword away and kicking the man in the chest. He fell into someone else who slit his stomach from hip to hip.

She reached Killian just in time to protect his back from a thrust that would have torn right through a lung. She slapped the blade away and didn't hesitate to drive her sword through his heart. Her back knocked against Killian's when she took a step backward to face off with another pirate.

Killian leaned against her, and she pressed back. It was the only reassurance they could afford at the moment, and it would have to do.

Together, they moved toward the door. It was a bit easier now. Everyone else was concerned only for themselves. Killian and Emma were the only two working as a team, and in this moment, they had never been more in sync. But they were still horribly outnumbered, and while they were making progress towards their escape, it wasn't fast enough.

Emma tried not to panic as she took on three pirates at once. She could deal with one. Two was a stretch but doable if she was clever. But three? She needed far more practice.

So while she wasn't surprised when she felt a sharp sting on her arm, she still cried out in pain. A cry that, somehow, Killian managed to hear over the chaos around them. "Swan!"

She immediately pressed her back against his to reassure him but had to step away a second later in order to fight. But she wasn't used to fighting in pain. Her cut was on her sword arm, and it felt deep, though she couldn't possibly look to check without finding a sword in her gut. Her fingers began to feel numb, and she began to panic.

And so when she caught a hint of silver in the corner of her eye, a blow that she knew she couldn't parry quick enough, Emma's reaction to throw up her free hand was purely instinct.

The blinding wave of magic that shot from her hand, however, was on another level entirely. The blast sent a dozen men sailing into the walls and into others, causing a massive, if bloody, domino effect that Emma didn't bother to examine even in her brief second of shock. Instead, she reached behind her, her hand locking around Killian's forearm, and ran for the door.

Some of the fight had drifted into the hallway, but what little resistance that they met was quickly dealt with as Killian jerked his arm from her grasp to take the lead. Their pace didn't let up even when they'd wound through countless empty hallways and the sounds of the fight had long since faded. There was only the echo of their footsteps and their heavy breaths until Killian abruptly stopped, grabbed her shoulders, and shoved her against the wall.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" he shouted, shocking Emma and himself with the level of anger in his voice. He shook her sharply. "Do you want to get yourself killed?"

"Me?" Emma scoffed. "What about you?! I saved your ass!"

"I never asked you to do that," he snapped.

"Yeah, well, you'll never have to." Emma's glare faltered as she continued to stare at him, her eyes falling to a bleeding cut above his eye. She wanted to reach out to touch his face, to wipe away the blood, but her arms were still pinned to her sides. Her chin wobbled as she met his slowly cooling gaze. "I promised I wouldn't run."

Killian squeezed his eyes shut. His jaw ticked in frustration. He wanted to be angry with her. And he _was_ angry. He was nearly blinded by it. But stronger emotions began to overwhelm his rage at her careless disregard for her own life. Love and fear crept through his veins. Fear, because it was what ultimately fed his anger; and love, because by the Gods, he loved her so much that it scared him.

He couldn't lose her.

But she was right there, in his grasp, and he wanted to strangle her.

And kiss her.

And hug her.

He growled, his forehead connecting with hers. "I can't decide what I want to do to you," he admitted.

He heard her breath hitch, and then she made his decision for him.

Emma slammed her lips against his, not bothering with finesse or skill. The kiss was sloppy and wet and hot and everything that she needed in that moment. Killian's hands left her arms to hold her neck, his thumb a rough caress against her jaw as he forced her mouth to open more. She moaned into the deeper kiss and pressed against his hips.

Instead of spurring him on, her action made Killian pull away. He stared at her, breathing hard, his gaze unbearably soft yet unquestionably torn. Slowly, he angled his head to kiss her once more, and this kiss couldn't be more different. It was simple. Soft. Innocent. It felt like the magical, fairytale first kiss that she'd never gotten as a kid.

Then Killian said, "I love you, Emma."

* * *

 **Annnddd cut!**

 **Muahahhahahahhhahaha!**

 **See you next time, folks! - "I just needed to say it." - Killian**

 **-AC**


	24. Chapter 24

**Author's Notes: Your responses to the cliffhanger last chapter were absolutely fabulous.**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Chapter 24

Emma didn't know what to say.

But that wasn't really true. She knew what to say, what was _meant_ to be said, but the words didn't come. She could only stare at Killian and his too honest eyes and try to remember to breathe. Air kept threatening to get caught in her throat. When she even thought about speaking, saying _anything_ in return, she felt like she might choke.

"I . . ." She gaped at him, trying to force her brain to work, but it just wouldn't function beyond repeating Killian's declaration. She stared at him but all she heard was _I love you, Emma._

Killian waited for her, as always, and when he saw her panic only build as the seconds passed, he gently brushed back her hair from her face, tucking the locks behind her ear like she did when she was anxious. "You don't need to say anything, Swan," he said. "I just . . . I needed to say it."

Emma's breath stuttered once again. Maybe it wasn't the air sticking in her throat. Maybe it was three words. She swallowed, trying to force them down, along with the terrifying realization that they were entirely true.

 _How long have you been in love with him?_

Far longer than she'd ever realized.

"Killian," his name tasted sweet on her lips as she began to smile, "I—"

Emma liked to think that if she hadn't glimpsed Barbosa over Killian's shoulder, she would have said those three words. She liked to think that she would have had the same kind of courage to say those words as it took to grab Killian's shoulders and shove him out of the way as Barbosa cocked his pistol and fired. But she never would know if it was true.

It felt like getting hit with a sledgehammer. The force of the bullet jerked her shoulder back, causing her to fall. It wasn't until she hit the ground that the pain actually came, but when it did, it was hot and numb. Her whole shoulder and chest felt as if it had collapsed inward. She couldn't breathe. Sounds were hazy. She thought she heard Killian yell, heard another shot fire. She wanted to yell at him to go.

But he wouldn't leave her.

She hated him for it.

She loved him for it.

"Swan." Killian's face was suddenly closer but blurry at the edges. He looked scared. She didn't want him to be scared. "Swan, love. Hey." His hand touched her face. He tapped her cheek. "Look at me, love." Had she closed her eyes? "Emma!"

It was only when he pressed on her wound that her mind snapped back into focus. The haze cleared abruptly as pain blew through her veins, pulling a short, choked scream from her throat. "There you are," he breathed a sigh of relief. She groaned when he pressed harder against her shoulder. "Swan," he turned her face toward him, "can you breathe?"

Emma moaned but tried to take a deeper breath than her pain currently allowed. It was stuttering and agonizing, but her lungs felt full. The breath left her in a rush but she nodded. "Yeah," she said. "It's just my shoulder."

Footsteps sounded through the halls, growing louder with each second. Killian growled in frustration as he turned back to look at her. "Sorry, love," he apologized before hoisting her into his arms, flinching as she cried out. "We have to go."

Emma tried to breathe through the pain to focus. "I sent Vincent back to the ship," she said as Killian began to move quickly through the hallways. "We should be able to sail as soon as we're on board."

"Excellent. I'll enjoy killing him."

"You're not going to kill him."

"He went against my direct order."

"And he followed mine." Even with her head tucked into his shoulder, Emma knew Killian's jaw was ticking. "He's my friend, Killian," she said.

He didn't respond, and although they moved through the halls at a quick clip, it wasn't fast enough. Emma could hear the angry mob gaining on them and squeezed Killian's shoulder. He hissed. "Put me down," she said. "I can manage." Killian looked down at her with a scoff and kept moving. She squeezed his shoulder harder, and he grunted. "I can," she insisted. "We're not gonna make it at this pace and you know it."

Killian went another few stubborn feet before he growled under his breath and abruptly stopped. He set Emma down gently, not wanting to let go of her but begrudgingly admitting that his lass had a point. She wobbled on her feet for a second and sucked in a deep breath that had him wanting to pick her up again, but Emma shot him a glare in the same second that dared him to try. She grabbed his hand.

"Let's go."

They made much better time on their own, turning down the halls and reaching the steps leading down to the docks faster than they ever would have had Killian insisted on carrying her. Emma's entire body throbbed with each step but she kept going, refusing to slow them down, and when she saw the _Jolly_ waiting for them like a beacon at the end of a tunnel, she managed to move a bit faster.

Running up the gangplank felt like the last hundred yards of a marathon, and as soon as her feet hit the deck of the _Jolly_ , Emma's energy abruptly left her. Every ache and pain flared to the point of distraction, and her shoulder felt like a hot lead weight. Her knees threatened to buckle, but she stubbornly remained standing, her grip on Killian's hand tight enough to break his fingers.

And she likely would have had a decent chance if he hadn't been holding her hand just as tightly.

Killian didn't give the men enough time to even blink at his and Emma's sudden, bloody arrival. "Get ready to make way! I want some distance between us and this bloody rock!"

Smee came bumbling up, hat flopping on his hand. "We're ready, Captain. Miss Swan's orders were followed to the letter."

"Very good, Smee. Take the helm. Get us out of here. And send some hot water to my quarters."

"Aye, sir."

Scuttling off, Smee dodged around a harried, pale-looking Vincent who strode straight toward Emma despite the sudden, harsh glare from Killian. "Emma," he paled even further at the sight of her blood-drenched shirt, "I never should have left you." His eyes met Killian's. "I apologize, Captain. I disobeyed a direct order, and Emma was—bloody hell, lass, did you get yourself shot?" he broke off, eyeing the massive blood stain that covered her shoulder and the upper half of her arm.

"Yeah." Emma tried to shrug but immediately regretted it. She hissed. "I'll be fine."

Killian turned to her. "Are you alright to go below, Swan? I'll be there momentarily."

Emma's eyes were pained but determined. "Yeah," she said, before her eyes narrowed dangerously. "And I expect to see you very soon."

"Aye."

Shooting him one last warning glare, Emma turned and shuffled down to the Captain's quarters. The moment her head disappeared below the hatch, Killian rounded on Vincent. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't run you through," he snapped.

Vincent shook his head. "I can't, sir."

"You're correct, Mr. Turner." He grabbed Vincent's shirt and hauled him closer so that his words, dangerous and low, could be heard and felt. "The only reason you are still alive is because of Emma," he growled. "If you ever disobey an order from me again, I'll skin you and leave you for the rats. Are we clear?"

"Aye, Captain."

Killian hesitated as he felt the ship catch the wind and gain speed, flying out of the harbor, yet not fast enough to escape the loud shouts and gunfire coming from the Cove. "And I owe you a debt, Mr. Turner," he added, somewhat reluctant. "If it were not for your actions, we'd all have our heads on spikes."

Vincent nodded. "It'll never happen again, sir."

"See that it doesn't."

Recognizing the dismissal, Vincent nodded once again before running for the rigging, throwing himself headlong into the work as a sort of penance. Killian paid no attention, immediately moving toward the hatch, pausing only long enough to grab the bowl of steaming water that Wallace was carrying across the deck. Absently, he was glad to note that the cook had made it back to the ship.

Good cooks were hard to come by.

Some of the water sloshed over the sides, burning his hands as he descended the stairs as the ship rocked, but Killian paid it no mind. His attention was entirely on Emma who sat slumped in one of the chairs in front of his desk. He quickly sat the bowl on the desk and growled, "What the bloody hell are you doing, love? Get on the bed."

Emma shook her head. "I don't want to get blood on the sheets."

"Hang the fucking sheets, Swan," he snapped even as one hand carefully held her cheek while the other, still crusted with her dried blood, covered her own hand over her wound. "Come on, let's just—"

"I'm fine here," she said, her voice soft and exhausted. "Don't . . . don't move me."

Killian's face twisted in pain. "You shouldn't have done that," he said. "You could've gotten yourself killed and then what would I do? You've spoiled me, love." He caressed her cheek. "I've grown a bit used to having you around."

Emma smiled faintly. "That goes both ways," she said. "Barbosa?"

"Escaped. I just missed him."

"It's okay."

"I'll kill him."

"I know."

Killian's eyes, which had grown glacial at the memory of Barbosa ducking around the corner, fleeing into the mob at his heels, softened with worry and concern as he noticed just how pale Emma had become. "You've lost a lot of blood," he said. "Let's get this sewn, love."

She laughed dazedly. "Time to see just how talented those hands are."

His smile was weak. "Aye."

Carefully, he rid her of her vest and then tore her shirt right down the middle so he could avoid Emma raising her arms. Her breasts were bare, her flimsy lace corset absent, but his movements were precise and clinical as he brought a soaked cloth to her wound. Emma moaned quietly at the heat and weakly tried to jerk away from him.

"You're lucky, love," he murmured as he worked. "The ball went clean through."

"Oh, good. I wouldn't want you digging around for it."

Killian flinched at the thought. "Nor would I."

"Hey, it'll be okay."

He tried to smile. "Aye, Swan. Just . . . hold still, love." Without warning, he poured rum over the wound, fervently wishing he could take her pain as his own when she let out a choked shout. "I'm sorry," he apologized, wincing when a single sob left her lips.

Emma took a deep breath. "It's fine," she assured him, though her voice trembled. "I'm fine, Killian. Let's just get it over with."

The stitches went fast, Killian's hands much more practiced than her own, and she still managed to feel a flash of jealousy and embarrassment at the thought of how he'd dealt with her own sloppy fingers. He bandaged her wound just as effortlessly and fashioned a makeshift sling out of the remains of her shirt. Once she wore a clean shirt, he carefully placed her arm in the sling. "There," Emma mumbled when he was finished. "Good as new."

"Not hardly, Swan," he argued, sounding far more tired than reprimanding. "Come on, darling." He put an arm around her shoulders. "Let's put you to bed."

"I'm not a child," she protested as she nonetheless accepted his help as he led her the short distance to the bed.

Killian smiled slightly as he pulled the blankets up to her chest and sat next to her, his hand gently brushing her hair from her face. "You're incredible," he said, lips twitching when Emma still managed a blush. He brushed her hair again. "Get some rest."

Emma forced her eyes open. "But what about—"

"I'll take care of it."

"Killian," she protested.

"It'll all be fine, Swan," he insisted softly. "I don't intend to insult your sacrifice by getting myself killed."

"Is that honestly supposed to _not_ make me worried?"

Killian leaned closer, bracing a hand by her head. "You don't have to worry about me, love," he assured her, "because if there's one thing I'm good at, it's surviving." Emma tilted her head toward him and he obliged, giving her a kiss that said he loved her just as truly as if he had said the words. "Rest," he ordered softly.

Emma's eyes closed without her consent, and she immediately fell into a deep sleep, causing Killian to dramatically slump forward and let out a slow, measured breath. He placed a kiss to her forehead before hauling himself to his feet, cursing quietly at the throbbing wound in his leg as he limped back toward his desk. His shoulder flared in pain when he shrugged out of his coat.

There was no real time to tend to his wounds. He could already hear the winds picking up, could smell the incoming storm, a storm that he knew was headed straight for him. So he cleaned the gash to his arm. It would be another scar. His collarbone sported a shallow groove where the bullet had grazed him. Unfortunately, he had to leave his leg alone. The fact that he could still put weight on it told him that the wound wasn't serious, only a regrettable hindrance.

He washed the blood from his hands before taking a deep breath and starting up the steps to the deck. His steps were sure and strong as he strode to the helm, barking orders as he went, his voice carrying on the wind that already sounded like a scream. The waves battering the ship were unnatural, too jostling, as if someone beneath the surface was shoving the _Jolly_ back toward the line of ships he could see pursuing him.

He immediately withdrew his spy glass as Smee bumbled up to him. "How many ships, Mr. Smee?" he asked.

"A-All of them, sir."

"What of the _Pearl_?"

"I haven't seen her, sir."

"Then all of them aren't following us, are they?" he said smartly, collapsing his spy glass and taking the wheel. "Alright, lads. Hold on to something!" he ordered before giving the wheel a sharp turn, causing the Jolly to list dangerously to the side before swaying back up, now directly facing on the oncoming horde.

Smee trembled. "Captain?"

"Yes, Mr. Smee?"

"Are we going to fight?"

"I've never run from a fight in my life, Smee. I don't intend to start now. Load the cannons."

"But we're outnumbered!"

"Load the cannons before I decide you're not worth the extra weight."

"Y-Yes, sir."

Killian locked the wheel and strode toward the rail, eyeing the gathering fog with suspicion. Thunder cracked in the sky and the air smelled heavy and sweet. Rain began to slowly fall, landing in soft pops against his leather coat. His hair soon lay flat, the rain-soaked strands hanging into his eyes. He blinked against the water but didn't move.

"I know you're there," he said suddenly. "Show yourself, witch."

Calypso's footsteps were light against the deck. The long folds of her dress dragged along the deck behind her, the material flimsy like gossamer and shredded into thin ribbons that showed teasing amounts of skin with each movement. She didn't smile at Killian when he turned to meet her gaze, but her eyes traced his form from head to toe and back with a dangerous, hungry look.

"Killian Jones," she said, her soft voice carrying easily despite the wind, almost as if her voice _was_ the wind. There was an odd, distorted quality about the sound, as if it was everywhere at once. "I knew you weren't dead. A Jones doesn't die so easily."

"So that was the deal you struck with Barbosa," Killian surmised. "You cure him and he kills me. Sorry to disappoint you, love, but your little soldier is a lousy shot."

Calypso sniffed, somehow making the action seem elegant. "Perhaps," she agreed. "Yet his aim was true." She stalked closer, hips swinging like pendulum. "I can smell her blood on you," she said, letting her fingertips glide along the wet lapel of his coat. "I still can." Her eyes dipped toward the deck beneath their feet. "She's right below us, isn't she? Tell me something, Captain, do you love her?"

Killian glared. "Yes."

"You would do anything for her?"

"Yes."

"You would die for her? Kill for her?"

"Yes."

"Would you wait for her?" she whispered, fingers leaving his lapel to trail along his jaw. "If you were separated by time, by circumstance, would you wait? Would your love only burn brighter in her absence or would you scorn her? If she ran from you, if she grew afraid or fickle, would you turn against her? Would you blame her for being herself?"

Although her touch made his skin crawl, Killian stood his ground. He arched an eyebrow. "Is that what you did, then?" he asked.

Calypso suddenly scowled and shoved herself away from him. "Davy Jones is a sentimental fool," she hissed. "He tried to tame me. You cannot tame the sea."

"You gave him your word."

"And I went back on it. The sea is always changing. He blamed me for being who I am."

"He gave you his heart."

Guilt briefly flickered in Calypso's eyes. "Aye," she agreed. "And now he's taken it back." Her gaze hardened and once again she stalked toward him with a wild glint in her eye that made Killian want to draw his sword. "It's a Jones's worst fault, the drive for vengeance. Aye, the wrath of an angry Jones is something to fear, but just as your grandfather will have his, so shall I have _mine_."

And then she thrust her hand into Killian's chest and squeezed.

* * *

 **Gosh, I just love cliffhangers. Don't you?**

 **Next time . . . "What can I say? I love to make an entrance." - Jack**

 **See you Friday!**

 **-AC**


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Notes: Strap in, folks!**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

Chapter 25

Killian gasped as he fell to his knees under the insane pressure on his heart. He could feel Calypso's nails digging into him, crushing him, and just when he felt something inside him begin to crack, to fade, the pressure was gone. He groaned at the pain that lingered, rushing across his chest in sharp tingles. Like a limb that had lost circulation.

"Hello, Calypso."

Killian looked up to see Davy Jones standing between him and the sea witch, though neither seemed to notice nor care that he was there. The two lovers were fixated on each other, staring, memorizing, remembering . . .

"Jones."

"I can't let you do this."

"Do not pretend your plan is any nobler, my love."

"You don't love me."

"No less than you love the sea. _My_ sea."

"I can't let you do this," Jones repeated, his voice softer. "You must be stopped."

"And why is that? Do I not deserve the loyalty of hundreds of sailors? Do I not deserve to exact vengeance on those who wronged me, who have threatened me? All over a petty broken heart."

Jones growled. "You betrayed me. You _lied_ to me."

"I never intended to! You know as well as I that the tides come and go. As did my feelings for you. I warned you when you gave me your heart."

"I thought I was enough."

"That was your mistake."

"Aye," Jones agreed, voice hard with pain and anger. "Aye, it was. One I intend to fix."

"You cannot kill a goddess."

"We shall see, love."

Calypso regarded him for a second more before she jumped over the rail, her body becoming part of the oncoming wave as soon as she touched the water, vanishing completely. Jones did not immediately turn, his eyes still on the water where she had gone, and so Killian used the time to get to his feet. He rubbed his sore chest, eyeing Jones's back warily. "Why save my life if you plan to kill me?" he demanded.

Jones turned. "Whatever gave you that idea, lad?"

"To make her mortal you need my blood. Something tells me it's more than a few drops."

"Aye, you'd be right. How is your Swan?"

"Fine," Killian snapped. "Stay away from her."

Jones raised his hands in mock surrender before he looked away to face the fleet of ships steadily heading toward them. "We're a bit outnumbered. Perhaps I should even the odds," he observed just before he disappeared.

Killian glared at the spot where Jones had stood. "Don't feel the bloody need to share, _Pops_!" he yelled scathingly just as the wind picked up with force of a punch, nearly sending Killian to the ground. He realized a second later that it hadn't been the wind. It was the sea.

The waves began to churn, and not in the gentle crests and swells that he knew. No, the sea began to spin. Round and round and round the water before him spun and soon the _Jolly Roger_ , the _Dutchman_ , and every other ship was riding the endless circles of a whirlpool. Killian could hear Calypso's laughter in the air as he clutched the wheel and watched a ship across the whirlpool disappear beneath the water.

Gritting his teeth, Killian didn't fight the waves. He dove deeper into the whirlpool, only a few ships daring to follow him. His mind raced as he tried to think of a way that would ensure Emma would survive the battle. Because that was exactly what this was, a naval battle, and for the first time in years he found himself thinking, _Come on, lieutenant, think_.

Water poured over the rails as the waves pounded the boat. The rain began to come down even harder. It was a bloody typhoon, and even as thunder cracked and lightning flashed, Killian still managed to hear a monstrous roar. He stared at the water and shuddered at the shadowy mass just below the surface. The shadow moved harmlessly past the _Jolly_ , slinking beneath the harsh waves with ease, until it was right beneath Captain Cormack's ship, the _Fancy Lady_. Then, with a sharp _crack_ , heavy tentacles broke the surface, shooting up like rockets nearly a hundred feet before falling back toward the ship, landing with enough force to crack the ship in half.

Killian grinned dangerously.

It was the Kraken.

 _Evening the odds, indeed._

"Alright, lads!" he shouted over the waves. "Prepare to fire!"

* * *

Jack Sparrow could give Killian Jones a run for his money when it came to surviving the impossible. He had escaped the melee at Shipwreck Cove with a single slice to his arm that was easily ignored with a steady supply of adrenaline. He and Elizabeth both had made it back to their ships and sailed headlong into the whirlpool after Killian.

There was just one more trick to pull.

"Are you ready, mates?!" he called as he pulled up alongside Barbosa's vessel, the _Dauntless_. "Fire on my command!"

Grinning, Jack made a quick, waving motion with his hand, using what little magic he knew to drop the cloaking spell around the _Black Pearl_. "Fire!"

There was a lovely spray of wood and water as the shots ripped through the Dauntless. The crew aboard the rival ship hardly had time to recover before Elizabeth's _Empress_ suddenly materialized on their other side and began to fire. Jack smirked dangerously before he shouted, "Mr. Gibbs! Take the wheel!"

Grabbing a rope from the rigging, Jack took a running leap and swung out over the water. He landed in a roll on the cracking deck of the _Dauntless_ and had his sword out in the next second. Barbosa was already waiting for him, his own sword drawn. "I was wonderin' when you'd drop in," he said.

Jack smiled faintly without humor. "What can I say? I love making an entrance."

* * *

Elizabeth was so preoccupied with firing on Barbosa's ship that she nearly missed an entirely too familiar vessel entering the whirlpool. Its sails were tall and white, its hull painted a familiar navy blue and trimmed in yellow. The _Endeavor_.

James.

When the currents of the whirlpool took her past the _Dauntless_ and closer to her former fiancé, Elizabeth was not surprised when James and a handful of sailors from the King's Royal Navy swung aboard despite the raging wind and rain. She gave the helm over to Mr. Cotton to meet her visitors, despite the storm around them and the sick feeling in her gut.

Gods, it had been years since she'd seen him.

His steely blue eyes lightened when he saw her, and though she felt no need to blush, Elizabeth nonetheless felt a strange anxiety at the sight of him looking at her as he did. It wasn't right that he look at her with such fondness, with such relief. With love.

"Elizabeth," he breathed. "You're alive."

"For the moment," she agreed with a pointed look around them. The darkness of the whirlpool was dimly lit with the explosions from the cannons, and the air smelled of gunpowder and anger. "Are you with us or against us?"

"What?"

"This is hardly the time to discuss what needs to be discussed," she said. "I have a fleet of mutinous pirates and an angry sea goddess on my hands and not a bit of a plan how to solve it." She raised her head high and straightened her back, the rain sliding neatly from her armor and her hair. "So are you going to help me, James, or not? I could use another ship."

Norrington stared at her for a long moment, unable to believe she was the same woman he had known and yet still completely enthralled. There had always been a certain allure to Elizabeth Swann that extended beyond beauty and good breeding. It was the way she lifted her chin and spoke with just a hint of a bite. It was the way she stood just as tall as any man. It was the playful zest in her eyes that simply _burned_.

Elizabeth's eyes were blazing, and the Commodore was just as hopeless to resist now as he was six years ago when she was to be his wife.

"Aye, Elizabeth. You have my ship."

The answering smile on Elizabeth's lips was snake-like and satisfied. "Good. I have a job for you, Commodore."

* * *

Calypso stood in the middle of the whirlpool, hovering over the dark cavern that disappeared into the deepest depths of the sea. She watched the battle unfold before her, caring little when the some of the ships sank under her fury or were blown to splinters by cannon fire. Her lips scowled in distaste when she watched the Kraken swallow two more ships and angrily waved her hand, drawing the beast deeper into the depths and locking it away where it belonged.

When the first cannonball hit her, she was thrown into the waves, shocked but unharmed, though she surged to the surface with a vengeance. Her bright ruby eyes burned as she glared at the _Dutchman_ , tossing away another cannonball with a flick of her hand, sending it into another ship. She roared, sending the waves climbing to nearly forty feet, before she whipped around and vanished, appearing with a _splash_ aboard the Dutchman.

"You cannot win, Jones," she said, turning, almost if by some lingering instinct, exactly where her lover stood. "I am a goddess. Your smoking metal has no effect on me."

"No," Jones agreed. "But it did distract you."

Before she could react, Jones whispered a few low, lulling words and waved his hand. Lines from the rigging wrapped around Calypso like chains, glowing gold with power as they tied her to the mast. The goddess roared and struggled to no avail. "You can't do this, Jones!" she screeched. "I cannot be killed! And I will not be trapped again!"

"We didn't have to do this," Jones said, his voice low and calm as he came to stand mere inches from her. "It didn't have to be this way, love."

"You still love me."

"Aye, lass. But not enough."

"Tell me, then. How does it feel?" She smiled. "How does it feel to have your heart back, my love? Do you feel it beatin'? It's a heady feeling, isn't it? All that life, all that emotion. How long did it take before you broke under the weight of your guilt?" She laughed when Jones's eyes flitted briefly to his boots in shame. "See, I may have been bound and tossed away but I still saw you. I saw every horrible thing you've done, murdering, thieving, lying, manipulating scoundrel that you are. It didn't matter who suffered, so long as you made someone feel as _miserable_ as you." She clucked her tongue. "Bad form, as you like to say."

"Aye," Jones agreed. "Aye, it was." He cupped her face, his touch gentler than it had been in centuries, until he roughly grabbed her hair and pulled. "My soul is already black enough, love," he said, his voice hard and dark. "And while I certainly feel guilt for those lives I've ruined, it will all be worth it to watch you _die_."

Calypso felt a flash of fear that she masked with a contemptuous grin. "You'll do anything to have your revenge, aye?" she said. "Even if it means killin' your own kin?"

Jones didn't blink. "Aye."

"You're forgetting the most important part, my love," she cooed. " _True love_. It binds us together. It's how you bound me in the first place. I cannot die so long as you love me, and you and I both know that you do."

"I do love you. I always will. But it's no longer True." He took a reluctant, almost regrettable step away from her. "And now you've forced me to do something even I in all my depravity would never do."

"But you'll do it."

"Aye. I'll do it." His cobalt blue eyes shined. "I'll kill Killian a thousand times over if it means ending you."

Calypso smiled and leaned forward against her bonds. "Then, you'll have to try a bit harder, my love."

* * *

Emma woke up to the sound of screams.

Her movements were rushed and uncoordinated as she stumbled out of bed, nearly falling flat on her face as the ship lurched sharply. The wind battered the windows and the rain outside sounded like gunfire. How the hell had she slept through _this_?

It wasn't until she reached for her boots that she felt the pain her shoulder. The tender flesh flared hotly, and she groaned before roughly shaking herself and pulling her boots on. She needed to know what was going on, what she could do about it, and most importantly, find out where in the hell her pirate was.

The ship listed sideways as she climbed the steps, sending her hip slamming into the small rail and a jolt of pain up to her shoulder. Emma gritted her teeth and continued to climb, throwing back the hatch and diving headlong into a monsoon. The wind whipped her hair that was almost immediately soaked to the scalp. Her clothes were quick to follow, and yet feeling completely drenched in mere seconds wasn't what made her pause.

It felt like all those months ago when she'd stepped up during the siege of the navy ship. The deck was absolute chaos. Swords were drawn. Bodies fell. Blood sprayed the deck. She could hear shouts, the whistle of cannon fire. She saw soldiers not unlike the deckhands of the _Dutchman_. Yet these were not skeleton, fish-like people.

These were monsters.

Some had three heads. Others had eight arms. They looked like monsters out of a mythology book, and Emma had an odd second to consider that they likely were.

Then a sword threatened to take her head off.

Instinct drove her to duck and roll forward. She picked up a discarded sword from the deck, the handle and blade slick with rain and blood, but she only tightened her grip and brought the blade up in time to block the next attack. Her thoughts and movements became entirely rhythmic, a familiar dance of thrusts and parries, so much so that it took falling into the rail and glimpsing the water below to realize that they were in the middle of a giant whirlpool.

Emma didn't let herself linger on the thought—a _whirlpool?!—_ and instead threw herself headlong into fighting her way through the monsters aboard her ship. It took ages. It _felt_ like ages. And yet by the time Emma had fought her way from bow to stern, she hadn't seen Killian anywhere.

She angrily kicked a two-headed hammerhead shark over the rail.

 _Where are you, Killian?_

* * *

Killian wasn't quite sure when or how they'd been boarded, but his deck was full of sailors that did not belong on his ship. The battle was complete chaos. The whirlpool simply spun them round and round, some ships circling faster than others, and it seemed that the cycle had spawned a dangerous game of jumping from ship to ship. The cannon fire was spotty now, an occasional echo in the roar of the whirlpool, but Killian had greater concerns than a potential hole in his ship, and if that didn't perfectly sum up the insanity around him, he wasn't sure what possibly could.

A hole in his hull hardly mattered if he was too dead to notice.

His shoulder was killing him, and he'd long ago switched his sword to his right hand, forever grateful that Liam had insisted he be able to expertly wield a blade with his less dominant hand. Yet even his right arm was beginning to burn from strain, and it was pure adrenaline that kept his left leg from buckling. He was sure he had a few newer wounds, but even if he couldn't feel them, he did realize that his movements were not quite as sharp as they should be.

Killian soldiered through it, even when the sea roared and the sailors were replaced by ugly monsters with claws and fangs.

He needed to get to Emma.

How in the hell she'd managed to sleep through this so far was beyond him, and he was simultaneously grateful and worried by it.

What if something was wrong? What if her wound was more severe than he'd thought?

Killian cut down every monster in his path. The number of arms or legs or heads didn't matter. He hacked his way through the horde with a disturbing balance of grace and ferocity until he was right in front of the hatch. Unfortunately, there he stayed.

There was no time for him to go below, no opportunity to turn his back on the battle. He simply became an impregnable wall, a single but solid line of defense. No one would get past him.

Killian was so focused on his defense that he failed to notice the green mist at his feet until it was too late. His eyes widened in horror and anger as he suddenly found himself on the deck of the _Dutchman_. He glared at his grandfather, who stood completely still on the deck, his hands loosely clasped behind his back, as if he was a retired, war-torn admiral.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" Killian snapped. "Send me back to my ship!"

"I'm sorry," Jones said. And he meant it. "I can't do that."

Killian stared at him, eyes slowly narrowing. "You orchestrated this all from the very beginning," he realized slowly. "Coming to me, using Emma against me, sending me after Jack, bringing you the heart, even Shipwreck Cove . . . this was all for _her_. For _revenge_." Despite holding no expectations of the man in front of him, Killian still felt the keen sting of betrayal. "You'd kill your own grandson for revenge?!"

"I've come this far, lad," Jones said. "I can't go back now. I'm sorry."

Behind them, still tied to the mast, Calypso laughed.

And that was all Killian could hear, because all he could see was the ancient dagger in Jones's hand.

He gripped his sword. "If you want to kill me, you're going to have to work for it."

Jones smiled humorlessly.

"Such is the way of a Jones."

* * *

 **I just can't seem to keep Killian out of trouble.**

 **Next time in Run Baby, Run . . . "I'm so sorry, Killian, but magic comes with a price." - Davy Jones**

 **Please review!**

 **Lots of love,**

 **AC**


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Notes: Hey y'all. It's that time again! We left with another cliffhanger, so without further ado . . .**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own it.**

* * *

Chapter 26

Jack pulled the trigger without thinking.

He had a shot, and so he took it.

What he was left with in the aftermath, however, was the smell of gunpowder. The wind whipped his wild, wet hair. He'd lost his bandanna long ago. The _Pearl_ pitched and rolled through the waves, water sloshing over the rails. Clashing blades still rang behind him. Shouts and cries were barely heard over the roar of the storm.

There was no satisfaction, no closure, no righteousness, no victory. There was just knowledge.

Hector Barbosa was dead.

Jack spared his former first mate one last look before throwing himself headlong into the fight still rampaging on deck, and for longer than he really knew, he lost himself in the familiar ebb and flow of swordplay. It wasn't until the deck became strangely quiet that he realized it was over. There was no clang of metal. No cannon fire. Just the now gentle fall of rain and the still churning sea.

"Jack!"

His head snapped up as Elizabeth strode toward him, looking every bit a Pirate King on the outside. On the inside, in the depths of her golden brown eyes, Jack saw an equally relieved and worried Lizzie. It was Lizzie who threw her arms around him in a way that she hadn't done in years, as if she was the same ferocious yet innocent nineteen-year-old girl that had blackmailed him into taking her on an adventure.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her warm breath tickling his ear.

He turned his head into hers. "Aye, love," he said before abruptly pulling away and jogging toward the helm. "Now!" he said loudly as he gave the wheel a sharp turn, sending them even deeper into the pool. "Let's see what old Jonesy is up to."

* * *

Killian knew he was going to die.

He wasn't a fool. He knew his limits, and he had long-since passed them. It was merely luck and pure stubbornness that kept him alive now as he batted away yet another strike from Davy Jones only to nearly trip over his own tired feet. His footwork continued to cost him, his leg had given out minutes before, and it took a kind of grit he hadn't known he'd possessed to keep on his feet at all.

All the skill in the world couldn't compete with centuries of practice and immortality. Any wound Killian made was inconsequential. By all rights, if Davy Jones had been mortal, he would have bled out long ago, and perhaps then Killian could finally find Emma.

 _Emma_.

Gods, he was going to leave her just like everyone else.

She'd hate him.

Jones's blade cut yet again into his side, the slice thin and forgettable under any other circumstance, and yet now it sent Killian to his knees. He stared up at Jones with blazing eyes and a clenched jaw. He tried to lift his sword as Jones came closer but his muscles simply refused, and the cutlass slipped from his fingers.

He could hear Calypso laughing again, but he didn't bother to look at her. No, if he was going to meet Death, he was going to do it proudly. It didn't matter that part of him wanted to plead, to beg to be spared. He could hardly stomach the thought of leaving Emma, of becoming just another person to abandon her. Not after she'd let down her walls for him, not after she'd trusted him with her heart.

And yes, he knew. He knew that she loved him.

He just hated that he'd never get to hear her say it.

"I'm sorry, Killian," Jones said, his voice full of regret and yet without an ounce of hesitance as he withdrew his dagger, the very same one he'd used to cut out his own heart so many years ago. "But magic comes with a price."

He raised the dagger.

Killian lifted his chin in defiance.

But just as the blade began to descend, a savior appeared in a cloud of white smoke and a halo of gold.

* * *

Emma needed to find Killian.

 _Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?_

She sliced and diced her way through the walking calamari on the _Jolly_ until the deck was clear. Only half the crew remained, and suddenly all their eyes were on her. It took a moment before she realized that they were waiting for orders. "I . . ." she trailed off, her eyes scanning the men that she knew and yet couldn't seem to feel anything for in that second. Bee was bleeding heavily from a gash on his head, looking like he belonged in a horror film in his bloody, torn clothes. Vincent wasn't any better with his arm hanging unnaturally from his shoulder and all his weight on his right leg.

She saw Ace lying near the starboard rail, a knife in his chest.

"I . . ." Emma swallowed, blinking hot eyes against the cool rain. Dammit, she shouldn't be fighting tears. _But where was he?_ "Who was the last to see Killian?"

A sailor she rarely shared more than a nod with came forward. "I saw him, milady," Higgins said hesitantly with a regretful look in his eye. "Davy Jones took him away in that green mist of his."

Emma's heart dropped. Surely Jones wouldn't . . .

He _would_.

"Trim the sails," she barked, trying her best to capture the tone Killian always used to get them scrambling to do his bidding. Her eyes narrowed across the whirlpool at the _Dutchman_. "And hold on to something," she added as she started for the helm.

Grasping the wheel, Emma felt the solid wood beneath her fingertips and remembered how it'd felt to have Killian at her back as he'd taught her to sail through a storm. She remembered the freedom, but most importantly, in this moment, she remembered the power. "Here we go!" she shouted before giving the wheel a sharp jerk and diving even deeper into the whirlpool.

The _Jolly_ resisted. She didn't want to take the waves at such an angle and the entire ship groaned dangerously, but Emma didn't waver. Her grip on the wheel never faltered, her eyes staying firmly fixed on the _Dutchman_ ahead. She could see the _Pearl_ gaining on them both out of the corner of her eye, but she ignored the familiar black sails.

She only cared about Killian.

Surely they wouldn't still be in this damn whirlpool if Jones had made Calypso mortal.

Emma liked thinking of it that way. Still logical, still true, and yet she got to avoid stating the obvious: a mortal Calypso meant a dead Killian.

The _Dutchman_ was soon in sight, and what Emma saw made her heart turn to ice. Killian and Jones were fighting, and Killian was losing. Badly. She could see it in his shoulders, his sloppy attacks, his piss poor footwork. When he fell—Or did he collapse? An idea that Emma rejected on principle because _collapse_ implied _defeat_ and Killian Jones did _not_ give up—she didn't think.

She reacted.

It was just like the fight at Shipwreck Cove. Magic surged through her, hot and powerful and demanding, and Emma gave herself over to it entirely when she saw Jones raise his dagger for the killing blow.

All she wanted was to be right between that blade and Killian.

And in the next second, she was.

She threw up her hands and shoved. Bright light blasted from her entire being, sending Jones flying across the deck to smash right through the doors leading to the Captain's Quarters. Emma didn't bother making sure that the Pirate Lord of the Dead was down for the count. She turned so quick on her heel that she nearly fell, which was just as well, since Killian chose at that moment to collapse completely.

Emma caught his head before it smacked against the deck and immediately began to touch and stroke his face. "Killian?"

He managed a smile for her. "Hey, beautiful."

Her answering smile wobbled. "You said it was all going to be fine," she accused, opting for anger instead of fear. She could hear his struggling breaths despite the storm still raging around them; they sounded short and wet. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his mouth when his weak laugh turned into a cough. "Ssh," she said gently. "Hey, none of that. You've probably got some broken ribs."

Killian groaned in agreement, even as his lips twitched. "Aye," he said. "That must . . . be why it hurts . . . when I laugh."

Emma shook her head at him, wry and disbelieving and slightly manic as his breaths continued to get shorter. "Don't talk," she told him. "We need to get back to the _Jolly_."

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that, girl."

Emma and Killian both froze for a moment, each of them torn in what they wanted to do. Emma knew that she needed to let go of Killian, to stand up and face Calypso, but her pirate felt entirely too fragile in her arms, and just admitting that to herself was so entirely strange that it only added to her desire to hold on to him tighter. Killian, in perfect contrast, wanted nothing more than for her to let go because you didn't just keep your back turned to an angry, _free_ sea goddess.

He reached blindly for his sword at his side, his hand grasping first around the blade, slicing his palm, before he managed to clutch the hilt and began to struggle to his feet. He'd be damned if he just laid there while his Swan challenged a sea goddess to a duel.

Emma reluctantly stood, keeping an arm tight on Killian's waist, her fist wrapped around a bundle of cloth and leather. She firmly planted her feet and stood tall, even though she was holding up half of Killian's weight and horribly vulnerable because of it, but that didn't stop her from wanting to pull her stupid, stubborn pirate back to her when he managed to stand on his own out of sheer force of will.

She glared at Calypso. "Don't," she said simply.

But the goddess simpered in amusement. "Your little light tricks don't frighten me," she said. "Now, step aside."

"Not happening."

"Swan," Killian began, but Emma managed to cut him off with a glare without even turning her head. He simply knew by the way her shoulders tensed.

"Not happening," she repeated.

Calypso cocked her head to the side in consideration. "So be it, then," she said before sending a blast of magic at Emma, who once again threw up her hands on instinct, fueled entirely by a need to protect Killian, and watched in mild surprise and intense relief as the shot was absorbed by a shimmering white wall.

She pushed back, shoving the shield forward. Calypso reeled, stumbling back with a scowl, before summoning a ball of blue that almost looked like water. Unfortunately, when it hit Emma square in the chest, it didn't simply splash. Instead it sent her flying backward onto her ass.

Killian made a valiant attempt at Calypso, lunging with his sword, only to have the witch casually flick her hand at him until he was pinned to the mast and bound in the same ropes that had previously held her. He didn't struggle. He couldn't. The ropes were squeezing his ribs to the point that black spots of pain flickered along the edges of his vision as he fought to stay conscious. "Don't," he pleaded quietly. "Just let her go. You have me. Let . . . let her go."

Emma was on her feet in time to hear him, sprinting the short distance to the mast until she was once again between him and someone infinitely more powerful than the both of them. "I'm not going anywhere," she told him even if her eyes never strayed from Calypso.

She took a step back, not in fear but needing to feel him, to know he was alive, just like during the fight with the Brethren. Killian let his head fall forward he could just brush her hair with his nose. "You should go, Emma," he breathed. "Please."

"You should listen to him, Princess." Her head snapped to the side to see Jones slowly stalking forward. "He only wants you safe."

"Yeah, well _I_ want him _alive_ ," Emma snapped, gripping her sword tightly at her side, unsure whether to train it on Calypso or Jones. "So I'll just take him and go."

"You cannot control your magic," Calypso said. "Instinct will only go so far, and in your case, not far enough."

Emma felt her hands warm. "You wanna test that?"

Praying that her magic would do her bidding, she lashed out a hand. A bolt of magic hit Calypso in the face like a slap, yet before she could even think about celebrating or calculating her next move, she was thrown off her feet with a wave of Jones's hand. Calypso tried to capitalize, her hand reaching toward Killian's chest, but was thrown by Jones just like Emma.

Unlike Emma, the sea goddess deftly rolled to her feet and fired back. The former lovers began to duel in earnest, and it looked to Emma like an out-of-control light show she might see somewhere in Vegas. She darted forward, ducking under a blast from Calypso that knocked Jones back into the rail, snapping it neatly in two.

Emma didn't wait to see if Jones fell into the whirlpool or not. She dove for the mast, her sword in hand and began to try to cut the ropes, only to have the blade of her sword bounce off harmlessly. "What the hell?" She tried not to panic as she attempted to cut the ropes. Her blade sliding against the seemingly simple nylon rope sounded like nails on a chalkboard. "How do I—?"

"They're enchanted, love," Killian sighed. "Made for Calypso herself."

Emma held up her hands to magic the ropes away.

Nothing happened.

She tried again, putting all her emotion into it, but there wasn't even a flicker of that warmth she was beginning to associate with her powers. Her chest felt strangely empty and cold. "I don't understand," she said frantically, throwing her hands toward the ropes yet again. "Why isn't it working? I don't—"

"Swan," Killian interrupted. "You have to go."

" _No_."

"Darling, please."

"He did say _please_ , love," a too familiar voice said from behind them, and Emma's heart leapt in her chest at the sight of Jack's wide, manic grin. "Got yourself in a bit of a bind, mate," he said, looking at Killian. "Need some help?"

Jack raised his hand toward the ropes and began to make twisting, fluid movements with his wrist, like a snake charmer, as he nearly sang a few words under his breath. The ropes glowed gold before falling away, Killian falling with them. Jack and Emma both rushed forward to catch him. Emma glared at the captain over Killian's back.

"You know magic?!" she demanded. "When were you gonna share _that_ with the class?"

"When it was relevant. Now just so happens to be that time."

"You're insane."

"Thank the Gods, otherwise this would likely never work," he said before slipping his shoulder under Killian's arm and hauling him up. "Come on. Lizzie's distraction won't last much longer."

Emma looked across the deck in surprise as she watched Elizabeth battle Davy Jones while Calypso beat furiously at the magic barrier trapping her against the rail. Emma looked back at Jack. "Take Killian," she said. "I'll help Elizabeth."

"Aye, lass."

Killian was barely conscious, and though he wanted to argue, he couldn't manage to make his lips work. He grabbed weakly at the back of Jack's coat, trying vainly to feel some sort of strength and not focus on the fact that he was beginning to feel cold and sleepy until Jack started to move. Pain shot through him, and he couldn't contain his shout.

"Bloody hell, Jones. You're a mess," Jack grumbled as he shuffled them toward the rail. "Now, I know you're not lookin' forward to this, but we're gonna have to swing, mate."

But just as Jack got a grip on the rope, it suddenly fell slack, and both he and Killian watched the frayed, cut end fall past them into the sea. Jack turned, forcing Killian to turn with him, but one step was as far as he got before his limbs simply refused to work. He was frozen.

Killian, however, was not.

He stumbled out of Jack's grip and lifted his sword, only to have Jones smack it from his grasp. Roughly, like he was dragging an unruly child by the scruff of his neck, Jones grabbed the back of Killian's coat and hauled him toward the mast. Killian's struggles were weak and futile until he saw Elizabeth and Emma strewn across the deck like ragdolls, and some last vestige of strength surged through him, a violent burst of anger and desperation, and with a yell, he spun round and punched his grandfather right in the nose.

It was just sudden enough and forceful enough to stun, but Killian couldn't properly capitalize on his attack. His steps were too slow, too uncoordinated, and Jones once again had him by the neck. "Wh-what did you do?" Killian demanded as he was once again held against the mast. "If she's—"

"She lives," Jones assured him, with a look in his eyes that was disturbingly kind before it faded into a swirl of regret and determination. "I'm sorry, Killian," he apologized, "but there's no other way."

Across the deck, Emma opened her eyes just as Jones slid his dagger into Killian's heart.

* * *

 **Wow, I totally forgot about how much whump I put on Killian during this bit . . . oops?**

 **Next time . . . "No!" - Emma**

 **Review! Yell at me! Curse me! Tell me you love me anyway? *kisses***

 **See you Friday,**

 **AC**


	27. Chapter 27

**Author's Notes: hehehe**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

 **P.S. Take a look at the Rating for the story. M. Let's earn it.**

* * *

Chapter 27

"No!"

Killian fell to the deck like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Emma scrambled to him, heedless of Davy Jones standing over them, dagger red and ugly in his hand. She turned Killian onto his back, her actions far too rough, yet the sob that escaped her throat at his agonized groan almost sounded joyful.

He wasn't dead.

She could save him.

She _had_ to save him.

"Killian." She blinked quickly so that her tears fell down her cheeks instead of clouding her eyes. "Killian, hey." She put a hand over his wound, hot blood immediately seeping through her fingers, while her other hand went to his face. "Killian, look at me. Hey." His blue eyes opened hazily only to shut once more. "Killian!"

Blue eyes. Pained yet soft. Sad. So, so incredibly sad. Killian's lips twitched in the faintest of smiles. Meant to comfort. "I-It's alright, Swan," he gasped. His hand, warm and rough and slick with blood, weakly clasped hers over his chest. "I love you."

"No," Emma's voice was brittle, child-like, as Killian's chest suddenly stopped shuttering under her hand and the light in his eyes faded. She began to shake her head. "No," she repeated. "No!"

The shock faded quickly. Her wide, disbelieving eyes fell into something softer and pained. A sob caught in her throat, but the next was loud and shook her entire body, as did the next one, and the next, until Emma was trembling and struggling for air. She couldn't breathe. Every sucking breath she took caught in her throat. Emma had shed her fair share of tears in her life, but she had never known she could cry like this—with her entire body, with her entire soul.

She cried and still, fruitlessly, pressed her hands over his chest. Blood still ran, hot and thick and _lively_ , over her fingers and she pressed harder to make it stop. She just had to make it stop. He wasn't dead. He couldn't be dead.

He'd _promised_.

And Killian Jones never broke a promise.

And maybe it was a desperate hope, but Emma believed him. She believed in Killian Jones. That stubborn, clever, dashing rapscallion of a pirate in all of his good form. She hoped and she believed and she _loved_.

Her magic swelled in her chest to a painful degree. Her hands over his chest began to glow, brighter than ever before, but Emma hardly noticed. She stared at Killian's face, that ridiculously attractive, strong jawed, scruffy face. She stared at his eyebrows that always seemed to possess minds of their own, drawing and arching in a way that always flirted with the line between sexy and obscene. She stared at his nose that always bumped playfully against hers when he tried to kiss her and smile at the same time. And she stared at his lips that melded so well with her own and felt like the gentlest sin against her skin.

She loved him.

In that moment, Emma Swan knew that Killian Jones was _it_ for her. He was the one. He was a part of her—mind, body, and soul.

And she refused to let him go.

If you asked her later, Emma wouldn't be able to explain why she did what she did. It was something out of a fairytale, and fairytales weren't real, but she hoped. She loved and she hoped and she believed.

And so she kissed him.

His lips were still warm, and Emma could almost imagine him kissing her back. The magic in her chest grew hot, so hot that it scared her, and then it all left her in a wave of power that simply felt like _light_ —pure, bright, and true. She was entirely unaware of the rainbow-colored ring that exploded from around her and Killian, oblivious to Jack's gasp of surprise from his place next to Elizabeth, who watched as the power of the kiss seemed to be channeled into Jones's dagger as he crossed blades with Calypso.

The dagger glowed brightly and that brightness exploded when Jones sank the blade into Calypso's chest.

But Emma didn't hear, didn't see, didn't _care,_ because to her total shock, Killian's lips began to move against hers. At first, she did nothing to pull away, sure that she really was imagining things, magic or not, until she felt a hand curling around the back of her neck and fingers sliding into her hair. When she felt strands of her hair snag on familiar rings, Emma finally drew back, her movements slow and hardly daring to hope.

Blue.

The first thing she saw was blue, the most beautiful, deep, mesmerizing shade of blue. Killian blinked as he stared up at her, for a moment as stunned as she, until his face split into a wide grin and he said, "Swan."

"Killian?"

She didn't even him a chance to reply. She attacked him with kisses, peppering his cheeks and even catching his nose, letting out a watery giggle when Killian laughed before bringing her lips back to his to kiss her thoroughly, only pulling away when his hand brushed her face and he felt her wet cheeks. "Hey, none of that, love," he said. "I told you, I'm a survivor."

Emma punched his shoulder. "You died first, you idiot," she said, and as the words left her mouth, her eyes grew wide and confused. "You died," she repeated. "How are you . . ."

"True Love's Kiss."

Emma and Killian scrambled to their feet, the latter holding his sword aloft and ready, his grip sure and strong, eyes blazing as he glared at Davy Jones and the dagger, stained with _his_ blood, still in his hand. "True Love's Kiss doesn't raise the dead," he said.

"No," Jones agreed. "But then, you weren't really dead."

Emma gaped. "His heart stopped. He wasn't breathing, he was," she swallowed, "he was _dead_."

Killian slipped his hand into hers and squeezed. Her grip in return was tight enough to break his fingers but he made no move to pull away as Jones raised the dagger. "You were cursed," he explained. "This blade is cursed to take a heart. I didn't, shall we say, finish the job, and so you were only, ah, mostly dead."

"Mostly dead," Killian deadpanned. "Bloody hell."

"What did you do with the magic?" Elizabeth demanded, causing Emma's head to snap around to see that both Elizabeth and Jack had their swords out and leveled at Jones. "I saw it. You channeled it. Why?"

"It was True Love that locked Calypso away," Jones explained. "True Love and my blood. And so, the only way to rid the seas of her was to do the same once more."

Killian scowled. "You killed your True Love?"

"Not all love stories end happily. I'm free of her, now. And of this ship, if I so wish."

"How did you know this would work?" Emma's grip on Killian's hand was still tight enough that she'd lost feeling in her fingers. "There was no way you could've known that I . . . that we . . ."

"I didn't know," Jones admitted with regret but not guilt. "But I, I certainly hoped. You were able to open the chest, after all. Only those who know True Love can turn the key."

An uncomfortable silence fell between them all until Jack held up a hand and pointed randomly in the center of them all. "So, we're all done trying to kill each other?"

Jones nodded slightly. "Aye. What's done is done."

"Brilliant." Jack clapped his hands. "Now, if you'll be so kind, mind whisking me my bonnie lass back to me ship?"

Jones looked like he wanted to smile. "Cavalier as ever, Sparrow," he said, but nonetheless raised his hand and Jack and Elizabeth disappeared in a swirl of purple smoke.

Once it was just the three of them, Jones turned to Killian. "I suppose an apology would seem trite," he said genuinely.

Squeezing Emma's hand in reassurance, Killian let his hand slip from her grasp so that he could stalk forward until his face was just inches from Jones's, feeling not one ounce of fear as he glared into the eyes of the man, his _family_ , who had only minutes ago slid a dagger into his heart. It was a memory, a pain, that he wasn't likely to forget, even if he somehow managed to live for centuries.

And it was something that he would not ever forgive.

"If you come near me or mine ever again, I don't care how long it takes, I will see the _Dutchman_ at the bottom of the ocean and you scattered in bloody pieces across the seven seas," he threatened lowly, a dark glint in his eye that swore his sincerity. There was almost a dare in a gaze, a challenge, like a predator that wanted its prey to run because it made the hunt that much more fun.

Jones wasn't afraid, but he wasn't naïve. "Aye," he agreed.

Killian held his gaze for a second more before he pointedly turned his back on Jones without consequence, reached for Emma's hand once again, and said softly, "Let's go home, Swan."

Emma nodded, staring at the _Jolly_ a few hundred yards away from them, bobbing softly in the now still waters. She closed her eyes, focused on Killian's hand in hers, and pictured the helm in such great detail that she felt like she was right there, picking at the notch between the spokes that she thought looked like a bird. Her magic swelled and her skin tingled. There was the briefest sensation of falling, perhaps flying, and then she and Killian were back on the _Jolly_.

The crew jumped at their sudden appearance, and then it was a slew of questions about Davy Jones, Calypso, and Emma's little vanishing act. Everyone was talking over each other. No one could get a word in, and finally Killian let out a long, loud whistle that snapped everyone to attention. He surveyed each face in turn, noting who was absent and finding a line of bodies covered in bloody sheets tucked away by the port bow. He mourned Ace's loss. The old geezer was one of the few on the ship that had known Liam and was brave enough to mention him when Killian was in a particularly good mood.

He had always appreciated it. It was comforting to know that he wasn't the only one who remembered.

"Calypso is dead," he announced. "Jones is no longer our problem. What Emma wishes to disclose about her magic is her own business, and so you should direct your questions to her, and accept her answer, whatever it may be." His eyes landed on the bodies of his fallen crew, allowing only a fraction of the guilt and grief he felt to show. He couldn't afford to seem unfeeling, yet he also couldn't appear soft. "We will mourn our comrades tonight, then spend what I think is a healthy time somewhere very far from here."

Vincent nodded. "Aye, sir," he said, starting a chorus of agreements from the rest of the crew. "And, Captain?"

"Aye?"

Vincent smiled. "Good to see you alive, sir."

"And you, Mr. Turner. All of you."

"It's all because of Milady," Bee piped up. "She's the one who saved our pathetic arses."

Emma blushed at the praise, and Killian rubbed his thumb over hers where their clasped hands hung between them. Even in such a simple touch, she felt his pride. She squeezed back as a sudden feeling of exhaustion overcame her. Killian's thumb brushed hers yet again. "Drop anchor," he ordered. "Everyone get some rest."

Compared to the excitement of the day—god, just how long ago had Shipwreck Cove been? A day?—the quiet that settled over the _Jolly Roger_ was almost unsettling. Almost. Emma found it sweet. It felt like she should relax, like she finally _could_ , and as soon as she was in their quarters, finally alone, together, _alive_ , she immediately turned into Killian's open arms.

They held each other for a long while, swaying gently back and forth. Emma buried her face in his neck, her lips brushing the hollow of his throat, while her hand rested over his heart. She needed to feel his heartbeat, and each gentle thud against her palm reassured her that this was real. Killian's hands rubbed soothingly at her back, which felt wonderful, but Emma couldn't help but feel slightly ridiculous because _he_ was comforting _her_ and he was the one that had fucking died.

Screw that 'mostly dead' _Princess Bride_ bullshit.

He'd been dead.

She loved him.

And that _hurt_. Losing him had hurt. More than Neal, more than that pregnancy test, more than prison, more than any foster home rejection.

He'd left.

"Swan, don't cry, love," Killian said softly, pulling away only to wipe her tears. "Please."

Emma sniffed and tried to take a deep breath. "You're alright," she declared, even though she meant it as a question. Her hands began to wander over him, pausing at every rip in his shirt to feel for torn skin. Killian tried to still her hands, but she pulled them from his grip so she could continue to feel him, to poke and prod, until she noticed that her fingertips were bloody.

She knew that it was just left over from his wounds. His shirt was soaked with drying blood. She knew it didn't mean anything. Yet she still felt a flash of panic, an echo of pain, and without warning gripped his shirt and ripped it right down the middle. It was dramatic and sudden and Killian barely had time to mutter a confused, "Swan?" before she had the shirt on the floor.

Her hands began their exploration yet again, searching for any sign of distress, and feeling none of the relief she thought she should feel when she didn't find so much as a scratch. There was no gruesome wound over his heart. No slashes to his side. Just faint rusty lines of dried blood were the wounds _should_ have been, but weren't. She stepped around him to inspect his back, finding it relatively unblemished with the exception of the scars that he'd already carried.

"Emma." Killian's voice was achingly gentle, almost pained. "Darling," he turned to face her and brought her hands to his heart so she could feel it beat, "I'm alright."

Emma looked at their clasped hands before meeting his eyes. "You're alright," she repeated.

He smiled a little. "Aye," he said. "Because of you."

"I didn't know what would happen."

"I think that's sort of the point, love." Sensing that now was not the time to bring up their Kiss, since even he was reeling from the revelation, Killian began to lead them toward the bed. "Right now," he said, "I think we should take care of you, because while I may not be bleeding, you, love, most certainly are."

Emma frowned and looked down, eyeing the dark patch on her shoulder in surprise. "Oh," she said dumbly.

Killian smiled. "You've likely ruined all my hard work, you know," he said as he sat her on the bed and rid her of her shirt without ceremony. His lips pursed when he saw the wound, stitches cleanly torn. "Now, it really will scar."

"I don't care," Emma said as he brought a bowl and pitcher of water over to clean the wound again. "Besides, now we're even."

Killian huffed and shook his head, a dry smile on his lips as he glanced up at her from beneath his lashes before going to work. Emma was a good patient, sitting still and only hissing when he sterilized the wound with rum before simply handing the flask to her. She took a long pull. God knew she'd earned it.

Once she was properly seen to and bandaged, Emma was tipsy from the rum and in a hazy limbo between consciousness and sleep due to exhaustion. She sighed when Killian took off her boots and tucked her into bed before crawling in behind her. She turned into him, needing to see him as well as feel him, and stubbornly kept her eyes open.

"I'll still be here," Killian said quietly, brushing his thumb over her cheek. "When you wake up, I'll be here."

Emma caught his hand in hers. "Promise."

"I promise, Emma."

And so she slept.

Because Killian Jones never made a promise he didn't intend to keep.

* * *

The ceremony that night was solemn. Killian said a few words about each of the fallen, and occasionally the crew stepped up to add their own words. Emma managed to speak a few kind words for Ace, her voice tight but strong, and then the whole affair was over. The bodies were sent over the rail one by one, and despite all that he had done, Emma hoped that Davy Jones was a kind escort to the Locker.

They spent time together on deck afterward, small crew that they were, and passed around bottles of rum as stories were told and songs were sung. The wake lasted long into the night, and Emma hardly spent a second of it out of Killian's arms. She passed the majority of the night in his lap, her good arm around his shoulders while his stayed snug around her waist, his fingers drawing ceaseless patterns on her hip and occasionally straying to her thigh.

At first it was comforting, his touch meant to soothe and reassure, and perhaps as the night went on, Killian continued to mean it as such. To Emma it only served to steadily kindle a flame in her stomach until by the end of the night, she felt like her entire being was on fire. She began to rub his back, running her fingers along the tight lines of sinew and muscle, and if she pressed hard enough, she could even feel the scars he bore from the whip, and whenever she would trace those, he would shiver.

She knew he'd finally cottoned on when she felt his head turn into her neck and his lips glance across her throat. A sense of inevitability came over them. Both knew how the night would end, and yet while Emma was anxious, Killian was endlessly patient. He continued to draw those now agonizing little patterns on her hip, his hand having slipped beneath her shirt long ago and yet daring to go no higher. Or lower.

By the time everyone dispersed, whether to drink by themselves or to sleep, Emma was ready to explode, and Killian looked smug when she caught his eye before heading for the stairs. He followed her down slowly, watching her hips sway in a way that told him she knew he was looking and was indulging him. She was on him when he still had two more steps to go, her arms looped tightly around his neck. His hands settled on her hips as he lifted her up, taking the last two stairs with her legs around his waist and her tongue in his mouth. The kiss was rough and hot, months of pent-up passion and promise, and it took all of Killian's self-control not to just turn around and have her on the stairs.

He didn't want that. He wanted to take his time with her, worship her like she deserved.

But it seemed like Emma was going to do her damnedest to test him.

She bit his bottom lip before sucking it into her mouth to soothe the sting. Her nails dug into his shoulders and the tight grip her thighs had on his hips was enough to make his mind race with thoughts about that same grip but without the pesky barrier of clothes. His shirt was the first to go, and she made sure to drag teasing nails over his nipples, making him hiss and her laugh.

"Bloody hell," he cursed as he set her on her feet. Her hands went to his leathers, but he caught her wrists, smirking at her indignant pout. "Quid pro quo, love," he reminded her, grinning at the memory of their drunken escapade. He fiddled teasingly with the hem of her shirt and cocked an eyebrow.

Emma grinned. "The honor is yours, Captain," she said, laughing lowly in her throat when his eyes went black and he kissed her fiercely. Her shirt was eventually ripped over her head, though Killian made sure not to jostle her too much, her bullet wound still sore and raw.

Yet another reason to somehow find the fortitude to slow down. The woman had taken a bullet for him. She deserved better.

Ironically, it was once she was under him in bed that Killian managed to change pace. Their kisses changed from lustful to loving. There was almost something tentative in the way that their lips moved together, like the sensation was entirely new, this deep, devoted dance of lips and tongues.

Emma instinctively wanted to fight it. Her heart felt entirely too full and fragile when he kissed her like this, like she was some precious treasure he'd been lucky enough to find and keep. His hands were gentle whispers against her skin, and she pressed herself tighter to him to soothe the ache in her breasts that he seemed happy enough to tease but otherwise ignore. She whimpered when he gently tweaked a nipple but did nothing more, seemingly content to hold the weight of her breast in his hand.

She arched into him. "Killian," she pleaded.

He shushed her, his lips trailing slowly down her throat, nipping and suckling at an agonizing pace. "Let me love you, Emma," he said. "Please, love."

It took a conscious effort but she relaxed, giving into the sensation of his lips and hands, her fingers carding through his hair as his kisses steadily trailed lower. She keened when he finally wrapped his lips around her nipple and began to tease it with his tongue and teeth, his other hand _finally_ massaging her neglected breast, and she groaned low and long in her throat.

The more sounds she made, the more demanding Killian became, his teeth shaper, his hand rougher, and Emma's core throbbed to the point of pain, desperate for some kind of friction. So it was with hardly any of the sly intent she meant when she arched her hips, curled her leg behind his, and flipped them. She promptly grinded her hips into his, groaning at the hardness she felt, and closing her eyes at the choked, wrecked sound that caught in Killian's throat.

His hands were hard on her waist, holding her to him as he rolled his hips into hers, obligingly lessening the ache for both of them, before he abruptly sat up and pulled her to him, his arms like bands of steel around her, trapping her, and with any other man, Emma would have done everything she could to escape, to take control, so that she didn't feel like she was some bit of captured plunder a particular pirate was loathe to lose.

But it was Killian, and Emma didn't mind.

It was actually a heady feeling, a powerful one, to be selfishly possessed, and her nails dug sharply into his shoulders when his lips settled under her jaw. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing, Swan," he said, his voice low and rough in her ear as his hands cupped her breasts. He rolled his hips, muffling her gasp with his mouth as he captured her lips in a wet, fiery kiss. "Is this what you want, love?" His tease was almost a threat as he rolled his hips again. "Do you think you can distract me? I told you, lass. We're doing this my way."

And with that, he flipped them as they'd been before, with his hips pinning hers to the mattress, his hands trailing down her arms to her sides, his lips and teeth marking her skin as he steadily trailed lower and lower still. She giggled when he placed a sucking, wet kiss on her bellybutton, and before she could yank on his hair to get back at him—she could feel the smug bastard smiling against her skin—his lips brushed the top of her pants. She trembled with anticipation, but when a second passed without any movement, Emma looked down, opening her mouth to ask what the hell was the hold up, only to catch Killian's eyes and feel her heart swell painfully.

He was _still_ waiting for her.

She could only manage a shy nod, and the gentle smile he gave her in return made her eyes burn. This man. This wonderful, sweet, beautiful man.

God, she loved him.

The urge to say it bubbled within her, but she swallowed the words on a gasp when she felt Killian's hot breath on her bare, wet sex. Vaguely, she recalled him promising to return this favor, and she _really_ should have known that he would, and yet the first firm lick nearly sent her over the edge right then and there.

Killian Jones was a talented man. Emma knew it. But dear god, what the man could do with his mouth was downright sinful.

He pulled noises from her throat she'd never known, reduced her to a quivering mess, twisting and arching for release, and yet he refused to let her fall. He kept her right on the edge, alternating gentle thrusts and firm licks, drifting up to suck lightly at her clit when he felt particularly arrogant, so she could look down at him and see the teasing, _knowing_ look in his eyes.

She hoped that he could see the promise of swift vengeance in hers.

But soon she couldn't see anything. Her eyes were shut as she threw her head back, her breaths growing even shorter as she felt that beautiful telltale heat building inside her. There was no stopping it. She had been hovering on the edge far too long, but when she felt him began to pull away yet again, she glared down at him. "Don't you fucking dare, Jones," she threatened, her voice holding not an inch of authority she wanted, completely wrecked and pleading.

She nearly laughed in relief when she came but choked on his name instead. He brought her down gently, lovingly, until she was nothing but a boneless, panting heap. Killian hummed contentedly as he kissed his way back up her body until he finally reached her lips. The kiss was slow and deep, unlike anything either of them had known. It meant more. It meant _everything_. It was _them_.

A quiet hush fell over them both as Emma finally pulled back from the kiss to look at him. And she let him see. She let him see everything that she was, every vulnerable, tender part of her that she kept hidden from the rest of the world. Her walls were down. Completely.

And Killian knew it because his walls were down, too. He looked at her as though she might disappear, like he was waiting to simply blink and find her gone. Find himself alone. Again. Worse was the faint glint of blind disbelief that she was still with him, under him. He looked at her as though she was something he didn't deserve, and that just wouldn't do.

Because he couldn't be more wrong.

Emma was willing to prove it to him. She _needed_ to prove it. So she held his gaze as she reached for the laces of his leathers, undoing them with quick, sober fingers. Soon his pants joined hers on the floor and then it was just the two of them and his necklace between them, the charms pressed between their chests. Emma readily hitched her leg over his hip to bring him closer until she could feel him brushing against her, and now it was Killian's turn to tremble.

And once again he looked at her and silently asked if this was what she wanted. But it was more than that, and they both knew it. There would be no going back from here. She knew that he wouldn't let her go. She would be his, and he would be hers. It was wonderful and terrifying, everything that they wanted and everything that they feared.

Because both of them knew all too well that sometimes life took what you loved.

 _Who_ you loved.

Emma knew that she could say no. She knew that she could put the brakes on and end it. She knew that he would let her, that he wouldn't say a word, wouldn't pressure her, wouldn't demand an explanation. Because he'd know. He'd know, and he'd understand.

 _You and I, we understand each other._

 _I can't take the chance that I'm wrong about you._

 _Sail away with me, Swan._

 _You're enough, Killian._

 _I love you, Emma._

She saw their whirlwind romance unfold in that one moment, and she could only say one thing, "You won."

"Won what, Swan?"

"My heart."

His eyes widened before his smiled fondly. "You were supposed to be asleep."

"I thought it was a dream."

"No dream, love," he assured her, kissing her sweetly. "I promise."

"I need to tell you something."

Killian groaned and chuckled at the same time. He rubbed against her center, hissing at the slickness. "Can't it wait?" he said, trying for debonair and failing miserably.

She wanted to laugh but couldn't, not when she looked up into his eyes, so bright and blue and soft as he waited for her. She swallowed. "When you died, I was afraid I was never going to get to tell you something," she murmured, her voice trembling.

Killian tried not to react, but there was still a gentle sense of knowing in his eyes and in his voice as he said, "Tell me what?"

"I love you."

The words left her in a breathy rush, but Killian heard them loud and clear. They rang in his ears, clear as a bell, the most beautiful melody. His heart sang in his chest as he grinned broadly, pressing his forehead to hers. "Say it again," he pleaded.

Emma's smile was shy. "I love you, Killian."

"And I you."

He entered her with one thrust, and both of them gasped at the feeling. Killian buried his face in her neck, throwing all of his frayed focus into placing reverent kisses against her skin as he waited for her to adjust to his size. _Don't move, Jones. Good form, you believe in good form. Don't bloody move._

Finally, blessedly, Emma rolled her hips. "Killian, please."

His first strokes were slow and sweet. They moved together with gentle sighs and kisses. Emma's hands were light caresses on his back and soft tugs in his hair. It was novel and new, tender and devoted, this idea of moving together for the sake of the feeling itself, to feel the closeness and the depth and the _love_.

Emma still wanted more.

She met his next thrust harder, and Killian moaned, his lips catching hers hotly with a familiar lustful passion that made her think he wanted to devour her. Emma squeezed him teasingly and he growled, sending a jolt of heat straight to her clit. "Harder," she breathed. "Killian, harder."

He hitched her leg higher on his hip, changed the angle, and thrust deeply, hitting that magical spot inside her that she'd begun to think was a myth. "Yes," she moaned. "God, yes. Don't stop."

Her eyes were shut in pleasure, her hands touching and caressing every bit of his skin that she could reach, when Killian's voice forced her eyes open. "Emma, look at me," he demanded, a thread of the Captain in his voice that sent a shudder through her. She nearly closed her eyes. "Look at me, love."

Her eyes met his and she nearly crumbled at the sight. Pupils blown wide and black, just the faintest ring of stormy blue, and completely, utterly wrecked. "You saved me, Swan," he told her. "You saved my bloody soul, you beautiful, magnificent woman."

Emma shuddered, feeling her orgasm begin to build. "Come with me," she said. "Killian, come with me."

"Aye," he grunted. "Together."

"Together."

His hand slid between them to rub wide, rough circles against her clit and with three more thrusts, Emma was gone. She came with a scream, and the sound sent Killian over the edge. He collapsed onto her chest, his hair wet with sweat and hanging in his eyes as he tried to catch his breath. Emma sighed, her hands gently sifting through the sweaty strands, pulling a quiet hum from his throat that nearly sounded like a purr.

When he felt like he could move, Killian gently pulled out of her, despite Emma's quiet whine of protest that he shushed with a kiss. They wrapped themselves around each other, Emma's face nuzzled against his chest, his own pressed against the top of her head as they both breathed each other in.

"I love you, Swan," Killian said softly.

The words came easier now. "I love you, too," she said. And just before they fell asleep, she added, "Next time, we're doing it my way."

Killian fell asleep laughing.

* * *

 ***wipes sweat from brow***

 ***fans herself***

 ***squees and claps***

 ***goes to church***

 **Hope everyone was, uh, satisfied by this chapter.**

 ** _Next time_ . . . "Tell Smee to set a new course." - Killian**

 **See you (love you),**

 **AC**


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Notes: Prepare for well-deserved fluff. I regret nothing.**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Chapter 28

Killian was sure he was well on his way to dying again.

Which, considering he _had_ been dead only hours before, should concern him far more than it actually did.

He collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving, as he ran a shaky hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "Bloody hell, love," he gasped. "Have some mercy on a pirate."

Emma laughed lowly in her throat, and he flinched when his thoroughly used cock still managed to twitch. He'd lost count of how many times he'd had her, though he thought they had to be somewhere near six. Soft morning light poured through the windows, and Killian honestly couldn't remember if he'd slept a wink. Anytime he thought he'd finally managed it, he would suddenly find himself awake and gasping.

This time it had been due to a pair of spectacularly talented lips.

Of course, that wasn't to say that he was entirely innocent. He would forever cherish the memory of his fingers sliding into Emma's wet heat and her sleepy whispers of _more_ and _fuck_ and _Killian_ before she finally woke up enough to throw her leg behind his and guide him home.

But that particular round had to have been at least three hours ago, and he knew there were at _least_ two more rounds before and after.

Devilish, teasing hands skimmed over his chest, nails lightly dragging when they reached the soft, smooth skin of his hips. He knew he should grab her wrists in case she planned to coax him into another round—because by the gods, he was certain another orgasm would finally finish him off for good—but he still didn't dare make a move to stop her.

He'd never refuse her, and if he just so happened to die, well, it was a bloody brilliant way to go.

Emma smirked from where she sat, straddling his hips like she owned him. She watched him twitch beneath her, muscles rippling wherever her hands roamed and teased. Watching his abdominals clench was quickly becoming one of her favorite pastimes, and she couldn't decide whether it was the thin trail of dark hair, the pale skin, or the deep V of his hips that she loved more. Or maybe it was all three and the fact that they led to another part of him that she was also terribly fond of.

She teasingly ran a single nail along his hipbone, grinning when Killian finally opened his eyes to glare half-heartedly at her. "If you're going to torture me, the least you could do is bloody well get on with it," he complained. "The waiting is worse."

"Relax, Captain," she cajoled as she leaned forward to brush a kiss over his lips. "I'm through with you for now."

Killian groaned even as he smiled. "Bloody hell," he sighed, kissing her again, lips slow and unhurried. Emma eventually had to break the kiss because she was smiling too much to continue it properly. She childishly pecked his cheek before she sat back up and her hands resumed their wandering.

This time her touch lacked any teasing. Instead, it was curious. It was hardly the first time she had seen him bare-chested, yet she felt so incredibly close to him now that the familiar sight just looked different. New. Her fingers naturally sought out the inconsistencies, the pale and rough patches of skin that spoke of stories she didn't know, pain he'd endured without her. She traced each scar and wondered.

Her fingers lingered on one that looked the most painful. It was low on his abdomen, mottled and thick and pale. One of his oldest. "I was still on Silver's ship when that happened." The sound of his voice made her head snap up to look at him. He'd only spoken of his indentured servitude the once, when he'd told her about his father. "We sailed into a bloody awful storm," he said, his eyes glazed with the past as he stared at the ceiling. "Lightning struck the main mast. Snapped it clear in half. One of the splinters stuck me."

Emma traced the wound that was easily the size of a half-dollar. "That's one hell of a splinter," she said, and he chuckled.

"Aye. Bloody bitch to remove. The ship's surgeon didn't much like me and was none too gentle picking out all the little bits." His smile faded somewhat as he continued, "I still remember Liam's face when he had to hold me down so they could cauterize it. Only time I can remember him crying."

"How old were you?"

"Sixteen."

Emma made sure not to show just how much his answer pained her. She could picture him, a younger him, perhaps with longer hair and the faintest bit of patchy scruff on his jaw, screaming on a dirty, bloody cot as a hot blade was pressed into his flesh. Without a word, she bent down and kissed the scar before moving on to one on his opposite hip. It was thick and a dark pink, far newer, and she ran her thumb along it.

"Much less interesting, that one," he murmured, his hand covering hers. "Got meself in a spot of trouble in a tavern."

Emma cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? What happened? Did they catch you cheating at dice?"

To her amusement, her words caused him to flush and look away from her. "Not . . . exactly, no."

She leaned forward, her hand gently tugging on his necklace. "What did you do?"

If he had been upright, he would have scratched behind his ear in that nervous, embarrassed way of his that she secretly thought was cute. As it was, he was reduced to simply blushing deeper and admitting, in strangled, hesitant voice, "Well, I . . . Swan, you know that I wasn't always so . . . _devoted_ . . . to, ah, anyone . . ."

Emma smirked. "Who was she?"

"I . . . Lillian? Laura? Something like—bloody hell, stop looking at me like that, Swan."

"I can't," she giggled. "You're as red as a tomato. God, what did you do to her?"

"Nothing she didn't like," he responded smartly, even a bit smug, which only made her roll her eyes, until he once again began to squirm. "I just might've . . . drunkenly, mind you . . . promised to marry her, which honestly, wasn't my brightest idea since she was already married to the tanner, wanted a child, _my_ child—she said she liked my eyes and other . . . things."

Emma stared at him with half a smile as she tried to figure out just where his story was going and wondering if it would be better if she never found out. "I'm almost too scared to ask what you did, now," she admitted.

Killian winced. "Well, her husband might have learned of our indiscretions and found us in my room the next morning . . ." he started and Emma promptly hung her head as he continued, ". . . and I was awfully hungover and couldn't bloody remember half the night, and then she was yelling that we were eloping and that she was already pregnant, and well, her husband was rather upset . . ."

She tapped the scar. "So, angry husband?"

Killian flushed. "Actually I stumbled into the doorway and gouged it on a loose nail trying to make a break for it and get me pants on at the same time," he said, making her laugh entirely against her will. "I never drank that much again." Emma continued to laugh, and he whined, "Swan, I told you that in complete trust. You're not supposed to bloody laugh."

She slapped a hand over her mouth. "I'm sorry," she apologized, before snorting and collapsing onto his chest in a fit of giggles. Killian sighed heavily, even as his own lips twitched. "I'm sorry," Emma managed again. "It's . . . that's just . . . you're so much _cooler_ than that, babe."

All sense of embarrassment left him at her endearment. It was a rare thing to coax it out of her, but every time he managed, he wanted to strut like a peacock and wear it like a banner. _Babe_. It was different pet name, he thought it likely more common in her realm, in her time, but that made it better to hear it now. He'd never been _babe_ to anyone. He'd hardly been _Killian_ to anyone.

And yet, to Emma, he got to be both.

He smiled when she still kissed the scar despite its backstory. Then she moved on to the others. Some he didn't even remember. His arms were dotted with thin lines from different nicks from too many swordfights over the years, and there was one cut that wrapped from his right armpit towards his nipple that he'd actually received from a misfired harpoon.

Emma kissed each one in turn until there was only one left, the newest of the lot, freshly healed and still a little red. She gently traced the long, angry mark that curved along his ribs. "And this one?" she asked.

"Aye, that one was entirely a blonde witch's fault," he murmured. "She'd put me under a spell, see. Most beautiful woman I'd ever seen, eyes green as the sea after a storm. Made me begin to remember the man I'd been." His hand wrapped around hers and brought it to his lips. "You can hardly fault a man for being a tad distracted when the lass decides to join a fight amidships."

"The lass was worried."

"The lass should have spared her Captain a fright." He slowly sat up, though he kept their clasped hands between them. "He loved her even then," he said. "Even if he didn't know it, and it would have killed him to lose her."

Emma smiled faintly. "I'm not going anywhere, you know," she said.

"Good."

He kissed her then, groaning at the roll of her hips that was already so familiar. Emma pulled him closer, burying her face in his neck as she began to suck and nip at the tender flesh that was already marked as hers. She rolled her hips again once her mouth was at his ear. "Make love to me, Killian," she breathed.

His answer was instant.

"As you wish."

* * *

Three weeks had passed when a raven landed on the wheel. Emma stared at the bird in surprise, her hands still gripping the spokes. She nearly shooed the bird away until she caught sight of the small leaf of parchment tied to its leg. Cautiously—hey, she still was fairly knew to magic and fancy carrier pigeons—Emma reached out to take the note. The bird did not react when she untied the missive from its leg, and once the bird saw its message delivered, took flight as abruptly as it had landed.

Emma eyed the black wax seal warily, brushing her thumb over the skull and crossbones imprint for a heavy moment before tearing open the letter. The ink was smudged slightly, the paper crinkled from sea spray, but Emma easily made out the neat, flourishing signature at the bottom: Elizabeth Swann. She scanned the letter hesitantly, feeling her gut drop for a brief second before she took a deep breath, folded the letter, and called Smee up to take the helm.

It was odd for her, to give orders to men that she still saw as Killian's crew. It was even odder, however, to watch said men hasten to obey her. She wasn't sure she liked it, didn't think she was meant to be a leader, but Killian insisted that by pirate code, as his . . . his girlfriend? No. Partner? Whatever. She was the Mistress of the _Jolly Roger_ , and her word carried just as much weight as his own.

He liked to add, as well, that she had brilliantly proved her mettle during what was already being called the Battle of the Brethren, and any man who didn't respect her skill didn't belong on his ship.

Killian was in his quarters behind his desk, ink-stained fingers flipping through leafs of parchment just like the one in her hand. It had surprised her that despite being a pirate, the supposed scourge of the seven seas, Captain Killian Jones still couldn't escape paperwork. His ledger was open in front of him, and she wondered if the numbers were the cause of his glare.

A glare that melted, however, when she came down the stairs.

His gentle smile at the sight of her still made her want to blush. She didn't know if she'd ever get used to that soft twinkle in his eyes whenever he looked at her, but she knew she never wanted to see it go. "Miss me already?" he teased as she rounded the desk, sinking into his lap just as he reached for her. He hummed as he buried his face in her neck, lips skimming over her collarbone. He sighed against her skin, but instead of sounding content, he seemed tired.

Emma thoughtlessly began to slide her fingers through his hair, nails scraping gently at his scalp. "What's wrong?" she asked.

Killian sighed again as he pulled away from her, taking a hand from her waist to run over his face in frustration. "We haven't had much chance to work as of late," he said. "What with my git of a grandfather and his ex-lover mucking about. Supplies are low."

Emma turned away from him to glance at the ledger book. She frowned. "I know money works differently here, but that looks like more than enough to refit the ship."

It looked like enough to refit _many_ ships.

Who'd have thought she'd find a rich guy?

She glanced back at Killian who grimaced, "Aye, love. I just . . ."

"What?"

Killian sighed as he trailed a hand up her arm to her shoulder. He nudged her long braid so he could pull her shirt open just enough to run his thumb over her freshly healed bullet wound. The skin was hot and tender. Fragile. Like if he pressed hard enough it would rip open and coat her side in blood just as it had the first time.

"The men won't be patient forever," he said eventually. "They'll want a score, and by rights, I owe them one. Leading them into a bloody war like I did, getting half of them killed, getting _you_ hurt . . ."

"None of that was your fault, Killian."

"Perhaps not," he allowed, though Emma knew by his tone that he was humoring her. "Yet it changes nothing, in the end. I owe the lads some gold, but for once, I . . ." He looked up at her rueful, yet torn. "I'm not thinking about gold."

Emma tilted her head. "What are you thinking about?"

"That island I promised you."

Her eyes snapped to his, and Killian knew that she understood. "You'd . . ." She trailed off as she stared at him, searching for the truth, and he watched her flicker through an array of emotions—shock, confusion, disbelief, and then, finally, that shy love she wasn't used to letting him see. "You'd do that?" she finally managed. "You'd give up the _Jolly_ for me?"

"Aye."

They'd shared many kisses by now. Killian thought for sure that he'd already memorized every single way their lips could move together, but this one was different. It tasted different. He couldn't describe it, but he knew it was special, this moment, and when it was over he felt a brief pang of loss. He chased her lips, trying to find that undefinable, sweet feeling again, but Emma stopped him by saying, "I love you."

He smiled.

"And that's why I can't let you do this," she added, and he frowned. "You love the sea, Killian. It's part of you. It's what makes you _you_ ," she smiled shyly, "and I love every part of you."

Killian's chest swelled even as he said, "You deserve more than this life, Swan. I'm wanted in _four_ different realms for a litany of crimes I don't regret. Five different kingdoms in this realm alone would see me hang—"

"Hey, let me worry about what I deserve," Emma interrupted. "And no one in any kingdom or realm is getting their hands on you." She cupped his jaw, tracing the scar on his cheek. "Not while I'm around, anyway."

"I'm not worried about me."

"I know."

Killian turned his face into her hand, his nose grazing the soft flesh of her wrist. A faint scent of cinnamon clung to her, as warm and inviting as the heat of her skin, and he tenderly pressed a kiss there. "I'll make you a deal, Swan," he said.

Emma's brows rose playfully. "Can I negotiate?"

"Pirate."

"I learned from the best."

Killian smirked, both smug and fond as he stared at her. "Five years," he proposed. "We sail for five years, take what we will, and then we'll have this conversation again."

Emma tilted her head to the side as she studied him, eyes slightly narrowed, curious and confused. "Five years," she repeated after a moment. "I can't see you giving up all those adventures."

"Perhaps, love, there are other adventures." His eyes dropped without his permission to her stomach as his hand slipped from her waist to brush the flat, taut skin. "Quieter ones," he continued softly, hesitantly daring to meet her eyes. His heart thumped heavily in his chest at her wide, stunned gaze. "Yeah?" he asked gently.

He wanted kids. Emma tried to wrap her mind around it. She really, really tried, but she just kept getting stuck on images of little black-haired, blue-eyed pirates chasing each other with wooden swords across the deck of the _Jolly_. Then the image changed to blonde-haired, green-eyed children, and she felt a sudden and sharp pang for the child she'd already had, that she'd given away. What did he look like? Or she?

Killian didn't know. He didn't know what he was asking of her, and a familiar well of panic began to creep under her skin. She wanted to run. She suddenly, viciously, wanted to run as far as she possibly could. Killian's hands tightened on her waist, and she tried to take a deep breath, but suddenly all she could see was a narrow bed and plain walls and a thick blanket cradled in a doctor's arms—a blanket that kept crying and wriggling like it was desperate to reach her.

"Emma." Killian's hands cradled her face. She stared right through him, eyes glazed with remembered pain. "Emma, love, come back to me." She blinked and shuddered. "That's it, Swan," he soothed once she was looking at him and _seeing_ him. "Where did you go?"

Emma blinked harshly and shook her head slightly before she took a deep breath, managing a feeble smile. "Nowhere," she said before agreeing, "five years sounds good."

Killian nearly pursued the subject. He almost asked—no, _demanded_ —to know whatever sharp turn her thoughts had taken. Instead, he clenched his jaw before giving her a small, close-lipped smile and a little nod. "Aye," he agreed, noting the way she relaxed when she realized he was willing to let it drop. It only heightened his curiosity. "Now," he said, dropping his eyes to the parchment she'd laid on his desk. "What did you originally mean to tell me?"

Emma reached back to grab the letter. She handed it to him and watched as he read it with a growing frown. Once he was finished, he tossed it away with a curse. "Bloody hell," he said.

"Is it smart to go back so soon?" Emma asked, picking up the letter to reread it, as if it had an answer hidden in code. "I mean, it's been, what? Three weeks?"

"She needs to reassert her power," Killian said. "And I, well _we_ , I suppose, are rather big players, given recent events."

"She needs us on her side."

"Aye, that she does."

Emma frowned as Killian's eyes narrowed as he glared at the note. "We are, aren't we?" she asked. "On her side."

"We're always going to be on our side, Swan."

"And it would be better for _our_ side to be on _her_ side," she said. "It makes sense, Killian, and you know it. Besides, Elizabeth and Jack took our side not too long ago. We owe them."

Killian glanced at the letter once more before he sighed, "So be it, then. Tell Smee to set a new course. We're going back to Shipwreck Cove."

* * *

 **And thus, the drama begins anew. We have fallout to deal with. Lots of people died. Power vacuums abound.**

 **Next time . . . "How the bloody hell do you ignore _that_?" - Elizabeth**


	29. Chapter 29

**Author's Notes:**

 ***peeks out from behind the door***

 ***waves awkwardly***

 ***blushes***

 **Uh . . . hey, guys.**

 **So . . . this is late. Whoopsie. But, you see, I made the mistake of starting _Sense8_ on a Thursday night, which led to a late night binge, which led to sleeping away half of Friday, which led to finishing _Sense8_ at roughly 6am on Saturday. Which then resulted in another self-induced coma, which was followed by work, and then classes.**

 **But that's alright, I tell myself. I'll just post next Friday. What's one week? Well, that's Fall Break. Fall Break means going down to the farm. Going down to the farm means playing with the horses. Playing with the horses leads to waking up early yesterday and HOLY SHIT THERE'S A BABY HORSE IN THE PASTURE WE DID NOT EXPECT THIS UNTIL APRIL THE VET LIED TO US OMG IT IS SO FUCKING CUTE KILL ME NOW.**

 ***clears throat***

 ***a la Deadpool***

 **Anyhoo . . . I've got my shit together. Here we go. Storytime.**

* * *

Chapter 29

The men were not happy about their new course, yet none thought to complain when Killian's glare dared them to even try. It was a two-day sail back to Shipwreck Cove, and they arrived in the late afternoon when the sun was just beginning to settle in the sky and set the tops of the waves aflame. The Cove still bore the remnants of the chaos Emma remembered fleeing. The roads leading to the rocky outcrop of the Brethren were deeply rutted and businesses were blackened from fire. Yet it was the docks that bore the most damage. Half the dock was gone, torn away in a massive gale or blown apart with cannon fire. It was difficult to tell.

Killian eased the _Jolly Roger_ into the slip next to Elizabeth's _Empress_ , and in a bold move, ordered everyone to stay on board while he and Emma met with the Brethren. The only man brave enough (or foolish enough) to question him was Smee, who nervously fiddled with his hat as he asked, "Are you sure, sir?" to which Killian surged forward, closed the gap between them in two quick strides, and grabbed his fat first mate's collar. His words were too low for Emma to hear, but if the way Smee's complexion had turned a frightening shade of white was anything to go by, she silently thought that perhaps she was better off not knowing.

He barked at the rest of the crew once he released Smee, daring them to object to his order, and only when he was met with three long seconds of wary silence did he turn, place a firm hand on Emma's back, and lead her down the gangplank and onto the docks. She waited until they were walking through town before she said, "Bit harsh, don't you think?"

Killian glanced at her, his blue eyes darker than usual, simmering with a rage that she hadn't seen since the day Davy Jones had held a blade to her breast. Still, his hold on her hand was gentle as he tugged her closer to his side when they entered the tunnel-like halls of the Court. "Coming here now is a risk," he explained, tone low and clipped. "Everyone here is vulnerable. Damaged ships and short crews. Anyone in a stronger position could swoop in and take what they wished with little fight or perhaps use this opportunity to attack who they believe is to blame."

Emma frowned. "Killian, none of this is your fault."

"It was my blood that was needed, Swan. My blood everyone wanted and fought for and died for, though it was hardly the most noble of endeavors. For me to walk in, alive after all their trouble, Calypso dead in my stead, it's a bloody slap in the face."

"You think someone might try to bribe the crew?" she asked. "Mutiny?"

"I did get half of them killed. They're hardly lacking temptation."

"You should trust them more."

"They're pirates."

"So are you, and I trust you."

Killian shook his head. "That's different."

"How?"

"Because I love you, Swan," he said, tugging her to a stop. "The crew doesn't. They're fond of you, yes, and I don't think any of them would actively seek to cause you harm, but should an opportunity present itself, should another Captain attempt to take the _Jolly_ , if the offer was great enough, not one of my men would hesitate to offer my head up on a platter." He paused to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his hand lingering along her cheek. "I would lose everything that belongs to me," he explained softly. "And while my first thought would be you, the same would not hold true to them. They'd think of forfeited treasure, everything in my hold. They wouldn't immediately think of you or what would become of you."

Emma stood yet again stunned by him. It was almost ridiculous, she thought, that his every thought somehow seemed to revolve around her. It was just . . . new. And odd. But so, so incredibly sweet, and dear god, she loved him for it. She smiled, just a small, surprised little quirk of her lips before she stood up on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

Killian's hands were warm on her waist before they locked at the small of her back, and then her feet were dangling above the ground and she was suddenly taller than him as he lifted her so that he didn't have to bend. He still held her up when he pulled away. "No one is taking you away from me," he promised, though it could have easily been a warning to whoever could be listening. "You're mine."

Emma laughed softly. "I know, babe," she assured him. "You can save the caveman talk." She gave in to the urge to kiss him again, though she kept it short. "Now," she said. "Put me down and let's get this over with."

Killian reluctantly set her on her feet, though he kept one of her hands in his as they started down the hallway once more. Emma expected him to let go once they entered the familiar chamber, but he kept a firm hold of her even as everyone fell quiet and stared at them. Scarred, angry faces followed them as they approached the table. Some men were still healing from their wounds, dirty bandages wrapped around arms, legs, and torsos. The room was hardly half as full as it had been only weeks ago.

Five of the nine chairs at the table were empty, and to the surprise of everyone in the room, Killian did not immediately take a seat. Instead, he pulled out the open chair next to Jack and gallantly led Emma to it as though they were attending a formal dinner. Emma shot him a questioning glance that he soothed with a look that said _trust me_.

So Emma sat, feeling horribly out of place and trying desperately to appear as though she and Killian had a plan. He wasn't giving her much to work with, slouching lazily in his chair next to her and throwing his arm so pointedly over her shoulders that he might as well have hung a sign over her head that said: "Property of Killian Jones."

Which Emma did not appreciate at _all_.

And she made sure he knew it the only way she could at that moment. She reached over, laid her hand on his thigh, and made sure he could feel the bite of her nails through his leathers. His response was to maddeningly trail his fingers up and down her arm as he evenly met the stares of the other captains at the table before he uncaringly flashed Elizabeth his best smile and said, "Looks like we're all here, your majesty."

Elizabeth's only response was to raise a single dark brow. "So it would seem, Jones," she returned with little inflection. "You all know why we're gathered here," she continued, turning to scan the faces assembled around the table. "There are seats to fill. Who among us wishes to join the Court?"

"Aye, I claim the seat of Captain Cormack of the _Lucky Lady_." A woman strode forward from the back of the room. She was well-built, lithe, with dark skin and equally dark, angry eyes. A wide-brimmed hat covered half of her face before she looked up at the table's occupants and smirked as she added, "By force."

She reached into her bag and dropped a severed hand onto the table with little ceremony.

"His ring is mine now," she said, holding up her hand to show an oddly light, intricate gold band fitted with a single opal stone. "Does anyone wish to challenge me?"

"Don't think anyone here is quite dumb enough, love," Jack spoke up as he eyed the detached hand warily, as if he expected the fingers to twitch. "Welcome to the fold."

"Let it be known that Captain Anna Maria of the _Jolie Rose_ is now a Pirate Lord, as she will be until her title is passed on or taken from her," Elizabeth said formally. Emma thought if there was a gavel, Elizabeth would've banged it to emphasize her point. "There is the matter of Captain Irons's seat to be resolved," she said. "Who makes a claim?"

On it went. Captains surged forward to claim the seats, all faces and names that Emma didn't recognize, and all—quite tellingly—young. Younger than Killian, even. One Captain, a stringy blond named Hamish, couldn't have been twenty. Emma stared at the assembled faces, trying not to look as curious as she felt, as she attempted to piece together what was happening. It didn't sink in until she glanced at Elizabeth at just the right moment and saw the flash of smugness in her eyes.

Like everything had gone to plan.

And Emma suddenly understood.

These captains weren't taking the chairs at random. Elizabeth had planned for it. She was stacking her deck with people she felt she could trust, or perhaps control, so that what had happened three weeks ago wouldn't happen again. There would be no mutiny, no division.

No one to challenge Elizabeth for her crown.

Yet once everyone was seated, there was still one chair left empty.

"I see there's still one chair to be taken." A smarmy voice followed by arrogant, clunking footsteps came out of the shadows of the crowd toward the table. "Just my luck."

Elizabeth's eyes narrowed. "I was under the impression that Mr. Quincy had taken Captain Melville's token."

"Ah, this?"

There was finally a face to the voice as the man stepped up to the table, one gaudily ringed hand resting casually but possessively over the chair back while the other held up a thin gold chain with a sea blue pendant. The necklace winked even in the low candlelight, but Emma gave it little notice. She was too focused on the tension she felt in Killian. She wasn't entirely sure how, but she was overwhelmed by the distinct impression that it was only her hand on Killian's leg that kept him in his seat.

"You could say I relieved him of its burden," the man continued with a conman's smile. "A good thing, too," he added, taking a look around the table. Emma was positive that his smile sharpened when he met Killian's eye. "Seems to be a bit too much fresh blood in the water."

Elizabeth's lips were a hard line. "Let it be known that Captain Blackbeard of the _Queen Anne's Revenge_ is now a Pirate Lord, as he shall be from this day forward until the title is passed on or taken from him."

The latter part of the declaration sounded more like an open invitation, and Elizabeth waited for what felt like a hopeful moment before silently gritting her teeth and nodding. "Very well," she said. "Let us begin with the first meeting of the Eighth Brethren Court. Firstly, we should examine the state of the Royal Navy. A source has informed me that—"

"Pardon me, Captain," Blackbeard interrupted, "but I have a question."

Elizabeth slowly cocked a dangerous eyebrow. "And it would be?"

"Well, it appears to me that all of the newly filled seats were rightly won . . . with a single exception."

Emma tensed in her chair as Blackbeard's dark eyes slid over to her. Her fingers dug into Killian's thigh, though she wasn't sure if it was in blame or worry. Nonetheless, Killian slowly unwound his arm from her shoulders and then placed his forearms on the table as he leaned forward—a move that did more than merely threaten.

It also, happily, blocked Emma from view.

Blackbeard didn't appear to mind. In fact, his smile only grew. "No need to fret, Jones," he said. "I mean the lass no harm. I merely question whether her willingness to spread her legs for you constitutes her place at this table."

Many things happened at once.

Jack jumped from his seat with an uncharacteristic growl, and to Emma's surprise, Anna Maria angrily drew her sword. Killian was faster than them all, sword drawn and two steps taken toward Blackbeard before anyone could even blink. Emma, however, was still faster. She raised her hands and shoved, sending a thin, sharp burst of magic right across the table into Blackbeard's chest.

The pirate flew backward, chair and all, before toppling over with a loud crash. Everyone in the room with the exception of Killian, Jack, and Elizabeth were shocked into stillness. Emma didn't bother to note the room's reaction. She was too busy striding toward where Blackbeard lay cursing. Killian made as if to follow, but she shot him a hard look that had his jaw ticking but his feet rooted to the floor.

Emma had made an effort to understand her magic in the three weeks since the battle. She lit candles with a wave of her hand and had managed to _Wingardium Leviosa_ the things on Killian's desk a few days prior. Magic was like a warm hum under her skin, soft and reassuring. She could easily focus on the feeling if given a few seconds to herself.

This now was nothing like she'd experienced. Her magic felt like angry cracks of electricity snapping against her skin and her hands at her sides were hot. She was mad. Plainly, simply, _mad_.

"You know," she said. "I'm getting really tired of everyone thinking I'm a whore."

First, it had been the _Jolly's_ crew. Things were different now, they all knew each other better, but she wasn't an idiot. They'd all thought she was just a bit of fun Killian had brought aboard to keep him company, and she hadn't forgotten Vincent's repeated warnings of what could happen to her if Killian wasn't there to protect her.

Even Jack had called her a "strumpet."

Emma barely deigned to acknowledge Barbosa's comments. Killian had told her very little of his fight for the key, but she knew enough by the look in his eyes that she'd been mentioned. With a petty man like Barbosa, it wasn't such a big leap to make.

And now, here was Blackbeard, and Emma recognized the man for what he was in a heartbeat. A bottom feeder. A tagalong. A man woefully compensating. The kind of man who watched the battle from a safe distance and then picked for treasure like a carrion in the aftermath. He was the kid at the orphanage who pretended to be her friend and then stabbed her in the back for extra food or TV time. He was a snake in the grass, cunning but cowardly, a man who only fought the battles he knew he could win.

Emma understood why Killian hated him.

In this moment, she hated him, too.

And god, why were her hands so hot?

She stood over Blackbeard, but he was not looking at her. His gaze was fixed on her hands, and when she glanced down, it was obvious as to why. Sitting in each hand, circling and flickering in her palm, was a fireball. Hot, red, and dangerous.

And it felt _good_.

"I don't need to wait for someone to pass on their title, and I certainly don't need to take a damn trinket to prove that I deserve that chair," she snapped. "I _earned_ it."

There was a heavy beat of silence as everyone in the room waited for something to happen, their eyes fixated on the swirling balls of flame in Emma's hands. Blackbeard glared up at her from his back where he still laid at her feet, a fact that he was undoubtedly aware of as embarrassment and anger roiled in his eyes. Yet he too waited.

Emma knew what they were all waiting for. They were waiting for her to finish him off. Flick her wrist, send the fire right into his chest, and watch him burn. She saw the advantages of the move. No one would dare question her, and if they did, it would be with caution. She'd start a reputation. Like Killian.

He'd told her about his rings. She hadn't thought much of the question when she'd asked. She'd simply been fiddling with them as she stood between him and the helm of the _Jolly_ on night watch. The first ring he'd taken from a deckhand who had dared to drink from the Captain's rum.

Killian had drowned him in it, killed a man for the same crime that had cost him his first ten lashes at fifteen.

Killian himself had only been nineteen. Hardly a year into his piracy, not yet a Pirate Lord. He said he'd done it out of anger, that dangerous sort of anger one felt instead of blinding sadness. Only after did he think of the advantage of the act. He'd proved himself hard. Cold. Ruthless. A reputation that could compensate for his young age.

This was her drowning moment.

And she . . . she couldn't do it.

"If anyone else wishes to question Captain Swan's right at the Court, they should do so at their own peril," Elizabeth said, her wry voice cutting through the tension like a butter knife, but it was enough for Emma to take a breath.

The flames in her hands vanished into smoke.

The glare that she shot the room as she returned to her chair was entirely for show as the past few moments truly began to sink in. Killian's eyes followed her cautiously, and once they were both seated, it was his hand that reached over to rest on her thigh, a touch higher than was appropriate, but his thumb rubbed soothing arcs along her leg and so she didn't care.

She focused on him, on his hand, as the meeting continued. Blackbeard gathered what was left of his dignity and rejoined them all at the table, scowling at the snickers and smirks he received, and Emma could feel his glare burning a hole into her skull, but she didn't give in to the urge to look at him. She focused on Killian's hand, on those calming gentle sweeps of his thumb, and willed her magic to settle.

And, slowly, it did.

By the time the meeting ended, Emma was barely aware of anything that had been said, but she readily stood when Killian grabbed her hand. Everyone broke off in their own little groups. Some went to their ships while others lingered to chat. Emma wanted to leave, as did Killian, but they were waylaid by Jack and Elizabeth.

"That was a brilliant bit of work there, love," Jack praised with a smirk. "Every pirate enjoys a bit of spectacle."

"Though you could have done us all a favor and burned the bastard to a crisp," Elizabeth said with a dry snort. "Honestly, the nerve of that man," she said, casting a disparaging look across the room at Blackbeard, who had regained his confidence and was loudly proclaiming his latest conquest. "Doesn't deserve his ship."

"Yeah, well," Emma sighed and shrugged lightly. "He won't be forgiving me for that anytime soon." She glanced at Killian. "I've never really had an enemy before."

His smile was small. "I'm sure between the both of us, we can handle him, Swan," he said.

"Aye," Jack agreed. "You've got True Love on your side." He grinned self-deprecatingly. "Always been a bit of a secret romantic, me."

Emma flushed slightly but said nothing in response. She squeezed Killian's hand. "So you've mentioned," he said with a smirk at Jack before he glanced at Elizabeth. "Try not to call another meeting anytime soon. I've seen enough of this place."

Elizabeth huffed. "As have I, for that matter," she said before smiling, looking more like a soft-hearted girl for a brief moment. "Safe sails, Captain. Though I could borrow Emma for a moment?"

Despite the question being directed at Killian, Elizabeth addressed Emma, raising a hopeful eyebrow. Emma nodded. "Yeah, sure."

Elizabeth led her away from Killian and Jack, leading her into a small alcove that was partially hidden by a curtain. "For future reference," she began, "this leads to a secret passage that leads out to the beach. Just push this stone," she said, tapping a square grey stone with a chipped corner. "Makes for a convenient escape."

Emma smiled slightly. "I'd wondered how you and Jack made it out," she said. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Elizabeth shuffled her feet, uncharacteristically nervous. "I, well, how are you, Emma?" When Emma frowned, she hurried to add, "I only ask because I . . . I've been where you are before. No matter how much I dreamed of adventure, I wasn't always so happy when I found it. This life can be cruel, I think we both know that well enough, but, I just thought that . . ." She huffed. "I just thought that you might like to talk to someone, once in a while. Not that you can't talk with Jones, but—"

"It's different," Emma finished, and Elizabeth nodded in relief.

"Yes," she agreed. "So I wanted to give you this."

Reaching into her coat, Elizabeth withdrew a small notebook. "It doesn't look like much, I know," she said. "That's the trick of it. This notebook is enchanted. I have its twin. Should you wish to contact me, merely write a message in its pages, and the same missive will appear in mine. It works both ways. You'll find the cover warm to the touch if there's a message to be read."

"Wow, so it's like the Renaissance version of texting," Emma said, smiling slightly when Elizabeth's brows furrowed in confusion, even as she nodded in assent. "I'm just not sure I should have it," she continued. "Shouldn't you . . ." she glanced over at Jack. "Wouldn't you rather give it to Jack? You sail on different ships."

Elizabeth smiled. "Jack and I are not . . . well, we love each other, yes. I went to the bloody Locker for the man, but we're not . . . we're not you and Killian."

"What? You mean True Love?" Emma scoffed lightly and folded her arms across her chest. "I'm not sure that's even a thing."

"You'd deny it? Even after the Kiss?"

Emma flushed. "It's just . . . what does it even mean?"

"You mean he didn't tell you?"

"We've just sort of . . . ignored it."

"How the bloody hell do you ignore _that_?"

"We kind of had other things on our mind."

Elizabeth smirked briefly, but then quickly shook her head. "I'll not spoil it for you, then," she said. "Besides, it's a conversation you should have with him. I'll only tell you that True Love is the rarest magic of all, and that it is one of the greatest gifts to be given." She placed the notebook in Emma's hands. "My true love is the sea," she said. "I can always find Jack on my own. I'd like to be friends, Emma," she said, looking nothing like the fearsome Pirate King she was supposed to be but a shy little girl on the first day of school. "We Swans have to stick together, yes?"

Emma smiled. "Yeah," she agreed, tightening her hold on the book. "I'll . . . write you, I guess."

"I look forward to it."

* * *

Killian Jones had never failed to face a problem head on, but Emma Swan made him hesitate.

He wanted to ask about what had happened at Court. He wanted to ask about the fire she'd held in her hands. He wanted to ask if she would have done it. No, he wanted to ask why she _hadn't_ done it. Why had she let Blackbeard live?

He knew the answer. It was because she was Emma. It was because she was the light to his darkness. Yet despite knowing that, he still felt the need to ask _why_.

She was quiet as they made their way back to the ship. Once the _Jolly_ was beneath their feet, she softly excused herself to their quarters where she stayed until night fell, and he finally joined her. He found her how he'd grown used to seeing her this late in the day—on the bed, wearing his shirt as a nightgown, legs bare and crossed beneath her. Usually she had a book. Sometimes she had one of his charts, brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of it. Other times she'd be surrounded by floating papers and spare doubloons.

This time she just sat.

And it bothered him more than it should.

"We need to talk, love," he said. "What happened at Court—"

"Why didn't you tell me?" she interrupted. "About making me a Lord? Did you even stop to think that I might not want to be one?"

Killian scratched the back of his head. "The thought might have crossed my mind," he admitted, and Emma scoffed. "It was a strategic move, Swan. It—"

"Oh, I know exactly what it was, pirate," she snapped. "It was you being a high-handed ass."

"To protect you."

"I can take care of myself."

"I know that, darling, but I can't just do nothing when I know you're in danger," Killian insisted. "You know how precarious my position was coming here. Yours was even more so. You needed power of your own. They needed to know that you're more than just my—"

"Whore?"

"Emma," he protested, but she threw out her hands.

"What, it's true," she insisted. "And I get it, okay? I know why you did it, but that doesn't mean I'm not pissed about it. You backed me into a corner, Killian. You took away my choice, and that is _not_ okay with me."

Killian opened his mouth to argue, only to realize that he had no argument whatsoever, and so he let his head drop and his lips press together. "Aye, love," he agreed. "I'm sorry."

Emma sniffed. He might be sorry that she was upset, that his actions had caused her distress, but she knew that he didn't regret it enough not to do it all over again if given the chance. Stubborn pirate.

Her first instinct was to hold a grudge, to mentally mark his indiscretion, and forever use it as an excuse to keep her walls up. But she . . . she couldn't do that anymore. He was too firmly rooted in her heart and to block him out, to throw up her walls now, it . . . it hurt to even imagine. Lonely days hiding in the crow's nest. Cold nights in bed. Stilted conversation over dinner.

It wasn't worth it.

So she glared at him. "Don't do it again," she said. "Or you're sleeping with the crew."

"Fair enough." He walked toward the bed, but to her surprise, didn't sit. Instead, he knelt in front of her, his hands reaching out to cradle hers. "What happened today, Emma?"

She looked down at her hands in his. "I got mad," she said. "I didn't mean for it to happen." She stared harder at her hands. "I didn't even know I could do that."

"Summon fire? Well, you can't always have a candle."

Emma shook her head. "No, it . . . it felt different."

"Different how?"

"Scary," she admitted quietly. Her hands balled into fists. "I didn't like it. It wasn't just _warm,_ it was hot. It _burned_ , and it . . . god, it felt good. I felt like I could do anything."

"You wouldn't have killed him."

"I thought about it."

"But you didn't do it."

"You would have."

There wasn't any judgement in her tone, just knowledge. Killian nodded. "Aye, love. Wouldn't have lost a wink of sleep over it."

Emma twisted one of his rings. "I wouldn't think of you any differently, you know," she said. "If you had killed him."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm gonna choose to see the best in you," she said with a small, sincere smile that Killian returned.

He kissed her knuckles. "And I you."

Emma gently tugged on his hand. "Get up here, Captain."

Killian arched an arrogant eyebrow as his lips turned in a familiar lascivious grin that made her huff and roll her eyes as he all too hastily complied, though he kept hold of her hand and gently pulled her until she was forced to straddle his lap. "Mmm," he hummed against her throat as his hands skimmed her hips. "Much better."

"Cool it, Casanova," Emma said, tugging on his hair to make him look at her. "I've still got another question."

Killian had a quip on his tongue but he held it back when he caught the nervous look in her eyes. "What is it, love?"

"The whole True Love thing," she said, hating the awkward blush on her cheeks. She began to pick and pull at the collar of his shirt. "How does it work? We never really, you know, talked about it."

Killian smirked. "We had something else on our minds, I think."

She weakly hit his shoulder. "Killian, I'm serious. What does it . . . is it even a thing? I mean, it sounds . . ."

"Like magic?" he offered with a soft smile. "Something you'd find in a storybook. Hardly sounds real, doesn't it?"

"Well, yeah. But we kissed, and there was a _whoosh_ , and . . . stop grinning at me like that."

"Sorry, love. Never heard of True Love being described as a _whoosh_."

"You know, what? If you're going to be like this then—"

"No, no, no, no," Killian's arms tightened around her when she tried to slip off his lap. "You're not going anywhere. I promise to refrain from commenting on your perfectly apt descriptions of our love."

Emma blushed. He bit his cheek to keep from grinning before dropping his gaze to the far wall behind her, suddenly feeling anxious. "Not every love is True," he tried to explain. "Many people find love and love deeply, but for a love to be True Love it means, well, it implies . . . fate."

"What? You mean like, soulmates?"

Killian smiled faintly and nodded. "Aye. Two people, unbound by circumstance or time, always managing to find each other. It's a rather romantic notion, I'll give you that, but, well . . . you did fall three hundred years into the past only to find me, Swan."

Emma frowned. "So you're saying that none of this was my choice? That the universe just decided for me?"

"Is that a bad thing?"

"Yes," she replied immediately before wincing, "I mean, no. Maybe. I . . ." She cupped his jaw. "I want this to be real because of _me_ ," she said. "I want this to be my choice. I . . . I chose you, Killian, and that's huge for me and I don't want the universe to take that away from me because dammit, I love you—"

Killian kissed her. His lips were rough and seeking against hers, wanting _more, more, more_ , and Emma had little choice but to fist her hands in his collar and hold on. He eventually pulled away with a gasp, though he didn't go far, pressing his forehead against hers as he caught his breath. "Tell me something, Emma," he said. "If the Kiss had never happened, would you still love me?"

He'd never been so forthright about her feelings for him, and the bluntness of his question made her stomach flutter. "Yes," she whispered.

Killian's lips twitched, and there was the faintest hint of relief in the brief smile he gave her before he asked, "And now that you know, do you love me any more or any less?"

She slowly shook her head. "No."

"Then I don't see how this wasn't your choice, Swan."

Emma smiled and gently pressed her lips to his. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

Much later, after making love well into the night, they lay quietly in bed, wrapped up together in a familiar tangle of limbs. Emma smiled as she drew random patterns on his chest. "Where to next, Captain?"

"I reckon we start looking for that island, Swan."

"Maybe find a little trouble first?"

"Aye." Killian smiled. "Just a little."

* * *

 **That sounds like an ending doesn't it? And it is!**

 **Next chapter starts Part Three: The Crocodile.**

 **Tick, tock, tick, tock . . .**

 **Next in Run, Baby Run . . . "You're positively glowing, lass." - Vincent**

 **See you next time,**

 **AC**


	30. Chapter 30

**Author's Notes: Here we go. Part Three!**

 **Oh, and just a WARNING.**

 **Here lies . . . well . . . it's . . . okay, I admit it. It's porn. It's beautiful, hot, self-indulgent porn. With feelings. If it's not your thing, um, once you hit Killian and Emma going back to the Jolly, just stop. Seriously. Things get a little kinky. (Tastefully kinky, I mean, it's me, guys).**

 **But yeah, this story is Rated M for a reason.**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Part Three: The Crocodile

Chapter 30

"Come now, love, I taught you better than that."

Killian batted away her attack with a bright grin as he began to circle her, cutlass pointing at the deck, deceptively vulnerable. Emma smirked as she matched her steps to his, letting her sword rest at her side. Her long brown coat brushed lightly against her calves as she followed the steps of what was truly just another dance.

She still had the right partner.

Each subtle shift of his movement, she mirrored. His grin settled into a smirk that matched hers. Slowly, he let his blade slide along hers, sending a shiver down her spine at the kiss of steel that whispered in the air. He cocked an eyebrow.

"Again," he challenged.

With snake-like grace, Emma lunged. Killian only just dodged a vicious swipe directly at his head that had him chuckling lowly in his throat. It wasn't the happy amusement she heard all too often. It was a threatening sound, a dark sound, one meant to mock and rile, and while Emma knew that he only meant to goad her into making a mistake—a purpose that truthfully was meant to _correct_ said inevitable mistake—she still felt a blinding swell of insult.

Two years of tutelage, and she still fell for it.

Every. Single. Time.

It was only a minute later that she charged too forcefully and lost her balance for but a second. A second which, unfortunately, offered plenty of time for Killian to slip his foot behind hers and send her flat on her back. She barely had time to gasp for air before he was teasing once again, his grin firmly back in place as he trapped her blade between his and a dagger he'd slipped into his free hand. "You know," he said idly as he slowly slid his dagger and sword down hers, "normally, I prefer to do more enjoyable activities with a woman on her back." Emma's brows shot up to her hairline, and a few of the crew chuckled. She'd forgotten about them. "Bit of advice," Killian continued as his face hovered far too close to hers for a swordfight, "when I jab you with my sword, you'll feel it. Best to just yield to me now . . ."

Much like Killian knew how to goad her into making a mistake, Emma had a few tricks of her own. She leaned forward, her head coming up from the deck until she was sharing his breath with him. His pupils dilated. His eyes darted to her lips.

"Why would I do that when I'm winning?" she teased before bringing her foot up and kicking him solidly in the chest.

Then the fight was on again.

It was a familiar battle for the crew of the _Jolly Roger_ , one that occurred often enough that Killian and Emma's swordplay sessions had evolved into full-bodied events complete with ale and betting pools. Bee stood off to the side, a bag full of coin in his hand, as he continued to take last second bets. Vincent was cheering Emma on, damn the propriety of rooting against his Captain, and he was hardly alone in his sentiment.

Although, the question of whether the crew wanted to see Emma win or Killian lose was not entirely certain. Emma had yet to best Killian despite every advantage she possessed. She knew his moves, his style, his body, better than her own. She could anticipate his every breath when they fought like this, and yet somehow, with infuriating consistency, Killian managed to best her.

As if the smug bastard needed more confidence.

And as it turned out, today would be no different.

By all rights, she had him on the ropes. He was slowly being backed toward the rail, their blades clashing with stunning force. Killian wore no grin. His lips were a firm line as he parried her attacks. She left him no time to counter, and in a small part of his mind he praised her skill to the high heavens and felt no small amount of pride.

However, the truth of it was that Killian mostly felt plain frustrated at his failure to capitalize. Only a lifetime of practice kept him from making one of Emma's brash mistakes. Patience was a virtue hard won, and when it mattered most, Killian Jones had it in spades.

It was just a moment. Half a second, perhaps even less. Yet there was an opening, just the slightest overcompensation of weight, and Killian took full advantage. He spun away from Emma's attack, swearing he could feel her blade skim the scruff on his jaw. As he moved around her, he reached out with his free hand, grabbed her round the waist, and yanked her back to him.

For a heavy second, they could only heave against each other. Emma's chest rose and fell rapidly both with exertion and the tangy thrill of a sword she knew would never harm her resting lightly against her throat. Killian's racing heart beat against her back, and his quick breaths mussed her hair. "Good form, Swan," he teased. "But not good enough."

Emma, both flustered by her loss and the firm feel of him against her back, didn't know whether she wanted hit him or kiss him.

She did neither.

Instead, with the smallest of smirks, she twisted her fingers at her side, and the sword at her throat appeared in her free hand. She shoved her elbow back into his chest, winding him and causing him to stumble. By the time he recovered, hardly a second had passed, and yet when he was standing straight once more, it was to the sight of Emma with two swords pointed at his chest.

His eyes narrowed. "You cheated."

Emma smirked. "Pirate."

And Killian could do nothing but laugh. "Well done, love," he said, and Emma let her arms fall to her sides as the crew around her erupted into cheers and applause. She shot them all a baleful glare that held little heat, and they all knew it. Bee only cheered louder before he began to divvy up the pot.

Vincent happily snatched up his five gold pieces as he made his way to her. "Well done, indeed, lass," he praised. "It's about time our good Captain learnt a bit of humility."

"Oi, watch it, Turner," Killian threatened. "Or I'll have you walk the plank for such insolence."

Vincent snorted and nudged Emma's shoulder with his. "He's adorable, isn't he?"

Emma laughed. "Get back to work before he runs you through."

"Don't be daft. You'd never let that happen."

Killian's eyes narrowed. "She won't always be around to save you, Turner."

"Won't she?"

Vincent grinned before he nonetheless followed orders and went back to his post, which happened to be the helm, allowing Killian the chance to slip his arm around Emma's waist and pull her to him. "Help me with something below, love?" he suggested with an outrageous swipe of his tongue over his bottom lip.

Emma merely hummed and wordlessly turned toward the hatch leading to their quarters. She descended the stairs without any haste, letting her eyes rove over the space that was no longer as sparse as it had been when she had first laid eyes on it. The bookcases were now full. The open wardrobe was bursting yet plainly delineated between Killian's clothes and hers. His were hung neatly and evenly, dark-colored in contrast to her own messy show of creams and browns.

The desk was as neat as ever, yet beside the sextant rested one of her journals and the notebook that Elizabeth had given her. Even the bedclothes on the bed had been changed. Emma had traded out the plain, old blue for a lush red that Killian had stared at for five long seconds before she'd suddenly found herself on her back against the fluffy duvet and laughing as Killian fumbled with the buttons of her vest.

Her eyes were on that rich red when she felt Killian sidle up behind her, his arms slipping around her waist, hands low on her hips as his lips skimmed her throat. "I find it terribly attractive when you best me with your magic, Swan," he admitted. "Have I told you?"

Emma smirked. "You may have mentioned it once."

He hummed against her skin, and she felt his lips smile briefly. "We need to work on your footwork," he said. "You still put too much weight on your lead foot when you lunge." He kissed her just under her jaw. "But fear not, I'll help."

"Private lessons?"

He chuckled. "Very private," he confirmed before suddenly blowing a raspberry in the crook of her neck, making her squeal and pull away from, only to spin around and slap his shoulder.

"Killian!" she scolded through her laughter as he tugged her back to him, locking his hands at the small of her back. Her arms easily wound around his neck. "Quit it," she said. "The whole crew think we're a pair of nymphomaniacs as it is."

Killian only smirked. "Well, love, we are _deliciously_ good together," he said with a sinful arch to his eyebrow that only made Emma smile when she once would have blushed. He leant his forehead against hers and murmured, "I'd love to remind you, if you've forgotten."

He nibbled at her lips, his happy laugh swallowed when Emma kissed him.

There were still times when neither could rightly believe their reality—when Emma questioned how he could love her as passionately as he did, and he wondered why she had decided to stop running for him, of all people. There were nights when they held each other with unspoken but not unknown insecurities, and there were days when both waited for the inevitable shoe to drop.

But insecurities were always soothed, and that damnable shoe seemed nowhere above them.

They were happy.

Blindingly, almost nauseatingly happy.

Though the past couple of years had not been without hardships. Emma would never forget the fear that had raced through her when she'd come back to the _Jolly_ with Vincent and Bee as escorts only to find the handful of their crew that had stayed to guard the ship tied together while Killian stood stripped to the waist, hugging the mast, hands tied, while bright red lines were painted on his back.

Emma had never again used her magic with such violent intent as she had that night. With Vincent and Bee at her back, and the crew once they were free, quick work was made of the trespassers and the one traitor, a Mr. Fishburne, who had told the enemy captain when the _Jolly_ would be most vulnerable.

She'd cut Killian lose, intending to heal him immediately, only to have him shove away from the mast with more strength than any man had a right to have with a blood-soaked, torn back. She'd watched, too stunned to move, as he strode toward the captain who still held the whip in his hand, and with violent fanfare, grabbed the older man's head and twisted.

When she had nightmares about that night, she could still hear that awful _snap_.

Yet that nightmare was overwhelmed with dreams of faraway places and different realms, of meeting the most curious people and tasting the most delicious foods. So much adventure and _life_. It was a sweet addiction.

Or maybe it was just _him_.

Killian kissed her softly. "Where did you go, Swan?"

She blinked. "Just thinking," she said with a smile.

"Oh?"

"You."

He grinned. "As you should. Now, about my sword—"

"You can polish it on your own," she said quickly, dancing out of his arms to take a seat at the desk. "Finding out just where we are is more important."

"We're somewhere within five leagues of Queen's Port," Killian said confidently as he perched to sit on the corner of the desk. "I told you, love. I'm _very_ good at navigating portals . . . and I'd happily polish my sword if you promise to watch," he added, his voice dipping dangerously.

Emma's eyes shot to his and she nearly caved at the sight of his dark eyes and sexy smirk. Damn him. Damn _her_ for finding a True Love that was—even in his most behaved moments—sex on a stick. "Hmm," she hummed. "Maybe later."

The change in Killian was comical. His smirk vanished, melting into a pitiful pout of incredulity and disappointment, and his eyes were suddenly too blue and disturbingly innocent in his confusion. Emma had to laugh. "You're not completely irresistible, you know," she teased before looking down at the map. "Now, if your calculations were right—"

Killian scoffed. " _If_."

"—then we should be right . . ." She traced her finger over the map. ". . . Here."

"And look, there we are."

"Don't be so smug, Captain. The ride here from Narnia was a bit bumpy."

Emma still couldn't believe she and Killian had helped the Pevensies smuggle the wardrobe to its new location in the Southern Isles.

Yes, _the_ wardrobe.

"Sometimes it's fun to be a bit rough, Swan."

Killian trailed his fingertips over her wrist, and she smacked his hand away. "You're insatiable," she muttered through a smile as she let him pull her up from the chair to stand between his legs.

He grinned. "Only for you. What do you say we have a bit of a lie-in at Queen's Port?" he suggested. "Send the crew to the tavern for a night or two." He lifted her hand to his lips. "I miss you."

They'd hardly had any time to themselves while they'd ferried the wardrobe to its new home. The seemingly innocuous piece of furniture had brought with it a purveying feeling of magic that all the crew had felt to their bones. It had made everyone jumpy, the air on deck tense, and Killian had asked that Emma guard the wardrobe in case any of the crew fancied themselves a peek inside.

If anything, their sparring session had been a desperate attempt to relieve some tension.

Tension that Emma suddenly felt right in her core.

"I miss you, too," she said, kissing him briefly before stepping out of his arms and heading toward the stairs. "So the sooner we get to port, the better, aye?" she called over her shoulder.

Killian grinned. "Aye."

* * *

"You're positively glowing, lass," Vincent said. He sat beside her in the quieter part of the tavern, two tankards of ale in front of them, flanking a large platter of meat and cheese. Emma let an apple roll between her palms as she took her eyes off Killian's wide grin and loud exclamations as he pretended to be surprised by winning at dice. She'd already seen him sneakily switch out the dice with his own with a wry shake of her head. "Happy?"

She smiled. "Yeah, Vin," she said. "I am."

"Glad to hear it," he grinned before looking around the tavern. "Not changed much, has it? I can't rightly tell. All taverns start to look the same."

"I don't know. I always know when I'm in Tortuga."

Vincent snorted. " _Everyone_ knows when they're in Tortuga. If ya don't, you're bloody dead inside." He nodded to himself. "Or outside," he added.

Emma rolled her eyes. "No," she said. "This place hasn't changed at all."

"Feel weird? Bein' back and all?"

"A little," she admitted as her eyes trailed over the many loud, laughing and hollering faces. It wasn't at all any different than the last time. It was lively and thrilling and fun within the small, smoky tavern. The air was sweet with meat and ale and her blood was warm from the fire at her back and the liquor in her hand. The only difference was her. She wasn't an outsider anymore. "I was so confused when I first walked in here," she said with a smirk. "I thought you were all actors. Like I'd walked into a play or something."

Vincent laughed into his ale. "Got to admit, lass, some cases you aren't all that far off. We're a theatrical lot."

"Hmm. Pirates do love their drama."

Once again, the other side of the room erupted when Killian won yet another round. Vincent and Emma rolled their eyes at the same time. "Can't believe they haven't caught on," Emma said. "How often do you come here?"

Vincent shrugged. "Depends on if anyone's chasing us. Or if we're doing the chasin'. Never good to get into habits, you know."

"Right."

"But I'd say we're here at least a few times a year. Can't avoid it, really. It's too damn convenient. But I see what you mean," he said, smirking into his ale. "Those poor sods really should know those dice are loaded by now. 'Course, there's not much they can do even if they know. Not worth arguin' over with a man like our good Captain."

Emma knew exactly what he meant. Killian had come back to the _Jolly_ with a new ring on his hand just a few months ago. The stone setting had been filled with crusted blood. It didn't take a genius to figure out how the blood had gotten there. Emma still wondered if she should have said something, but what was the point when Killian had stumbled into their cabin, stone drunk, with faraway, lost eyes that kept straying to his new ring?

"Funny thing about darkness, Swan," he'd said. "It sneaks up on you."

Maybe it was wrong of her to so easily put aside his actions, but it was hard to judge a man that you loved, particularly when that man left a flower on your pillow the next morning and then made love to you that night with the sort of determined desperation of a man convinced you would leave if he gave you the chance. So Emma had decided to see the best in him, and there was so much more to see when she did.

"Emma?"

She blinked and looked over at Vincent. "Sorry," she said with a self-deprecating smile. "Lost in thought."

Vincent waggled his eyebrows. "Ooh, the naughty kind?"

"God, shut up."

"No."

" _Yes_."

"Come on, lass. No one's paying any attention to us." He leaned closer to her. "They won't hear a word about our Captain's more . . . dastardly deeds."

"My sex life isn't _dastardly_. It's . . . nice."

"Oh, dear. That sounds terrible."

"You know what I mean."

"I'd love to hear specifics. Just how _nice_ is it?"

She smirked. "More than you could handle."

Vincent eyed Killian appraisingly, and if Emma wasn't mistaken, somewhat ruefully. "Perhaps you're right, lass," he nearly sighed.

She chuckled into her ale. "Handsome, isn't he?"

"I'm not entirely convinced he's human. Lucky lass, you are."

"You could always buy him a drink and see what happens."

"Are you offering me your True Love for the night, Emma?"

"If he goes for it, sure."

Vincent shook his head. "You're cruel." She laughed. "Horribly, deliciously, cruel," he added with another glance at Killian. "You should be kinder to me, lass, considering my . . . predisposition."

It had taken Vincent a year to admit to Emma that he was gay. He'd just out and said it one night in Tortuga when he'd had a few too many. The very last reaction he'd expected from Emma was for her to smirk and say, "Took you long enough." She hadn't stared at him as if he was diseased. She hadn't condemned him, hadn't tried to steer him in the "right" direction.

To his embarrassment, her first thought had been to find him a man for the night to celebrate his honesty.

"You'll find someone," Emma said confidently. "Just you wait."

He rolled his eyes. "I'll stick to living vicariously through you."

They took turns spinning tales and drinking their fill. Emma occasionally pointed to a man she thought might keep Vincent company for the night, delighting in the way she made him blush. After all, he'd taken far too much glee teasing her about Killian when she'd still been so terribly confused by her feelings. Revenge was sweet.

Vincent was a good sport, and when the night grew darker and a cute, flame-haired man across the bar kept stealing shy looks their way, Emma forcibly pushed him in the right direction with a wink and a "Go get him, tiger."

She waited until she watched them leave—entirely unnoticed by everyone in the tavern—and then decided that she'd find a man of her own.

Unfortunately, said man was surrounded by women. She scoffed under her breath, partly exasperated, partly amused. Honestly, it was too frequent an occurrence to rile her up, and it was strange to feel so secure as she watched one woman trail her hand up his neck to play with his hair. Yes, he was charming and clever and handsome—she knew that well enough—but she also knew, undoubtedly, that he was _hers_.

All it took was two buttons undone on her blouse, a sway of her a hips, and low voice as she strutted up to his table, leaned forward, and said, "What are you boys playing?"

And Killian Jones—dashing rapscallion, Killian Jones—gulped.

His eyes were slower to meet hers, lingering on her cleavage before flickering up to her face. He stared at her, pupils blown wide with desire and rum, and said, "Game's over, lads. I suddenly fancy some fresh air."

He didn't notice the girls' pouts as he rose, and Emma didn't either. She only smiled and headed for the door, knowing that he would follow, and laughing under her breath when she heard the unmistakable slip of his boots against the dirt floor as he hurried to catch up with her. His arm slid around her shoulders to pull her into his side once they were out the door, his fingertips dancing with promise over her exposed collarbone and the tops of her breasts.

They walked in a cloud of rum and the sea, Killian nuzzling her any chance he got, heedless of the way he occasionally stumbled because he wasn't paying enough attention to his feet. When he tripped yet again, Emma laughed as she caught him. "You're drunk," she said.

"If I was drunk, Swan, I wouldn't be able to do this."

He abruptly threw away the empty bottle of rum he'd carried in his free hand and without a second's hesitation swept her into his arms. He laughed when she shouted in surprise and snuck a quick kiss to the tops of her breasts when she reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. "Killian Jones!" He wasn't sure whether she was scolding him for picking her up or tasting her breasts in public. Honestly, though, it wasn't like anyone was on the dock to see. "Put me down!"

"Nonsense, love," he said dramatically. "I've carried rum barrels heavier than you."

Emma laughed and gripped him tighter as he swung her about as if he'd toss her into the water. It was so entirely different in comparison to when he'd first brought her aboard his ship. She had been hesitant. Quietly hostile. He'd been arrogant and yet unusually kind.

How far they'd come.

Killian unknowingly followed her train of thought and wanted to commemorate this moment, though things didn't go quite as they had two years earlier. "Behold!" he announced once they reached the gangplank. "The Rolly Joger!"

He had to put Emma down because she was laughing so hard.

"Oh, babe, you are _definitely_ drunk," she giggled as she pityingly took his head and led him across the deck.

He flushed and held up a finger. "I am not. It was a mere slip of the tongue."

"Uh huh."

He pulled her to him. "We're never speaking of it again."

"Oh, no. I'm never letting you live this down."

"Cruel woman."

"I'll show you cruel," she promised, giggling when he growled and surged forward to capture her lips. She slipped out of his grip. "You know where to find me," she said before heading toward their quarters.

Killian nearly face-planted on the deck in his hurry to follow. He caught up to her by skipping the last three steps of the ladder, jumping down and sweeping Emma up into his arms just as he fell toward the bed. The little squeak of surprise and delight she gave as they bounced on the mattress made his grin too wide for a kiss, and so he just laid there and looked at her. He tucked a curl behind her ear. "Found you," he said.

Emma smiled. "Took you long enough."

"You were three centuries in the future and in another realm at that," he argued lightly. "Cut a pirate some slack, Swan. Now," he leaned forward, "a woman as beautiful as you deserves my full and prompt attention."

The kiss was sweet at first, coaxing, with Killian constantly pushing for more. Deeper strokes. Little nips. All actions that Emma thoroughly enjoyed yet loved teasing more. She artfully gave back just enough to seem content but shy. She knew he liked it. He liked slipping past her walls, her defenses.

She always felt the greatest satisfaction when she abruptly began to return the kiss with all the passion that he wanted, the sort of wild, reckless surrender that completely consumed her if she only let it. The little groan he would inevitably give lit a fire in her stomach like nothing else, and this time was absolutely no different. She swallowed his contented groan as she slipped her hands under his coat and began to shove it over his shoulders. She hardly felt the absence of his hands as he tossed it to the floor.

Next came the goddamn buttons on his vest.

God, she hated those brass fuckers.

She cursed when she fumbled with the heavy button. "Why do you insist on wearing this thing?" she growled in complaint.

Killian laughed into her neck where he'd been tortuously nipping the flesh with his teeth and then soothing with his tongue. "Impatient as ever."

He laughed again when the vest magically disappeared.

Once she'd mastered that particular trick, he'd had to enforce a rule that only one item of clothing could be magicked away during sex. He liked unwrapping her far too much to have that simple joy taken from him, and truly, what man didn't like having the woman he loved ripping his clothes off?

Emma's hands were instantly under his shirt, fingers searching out familiar scars and trailing teasingly over his ribs and tauntingly over his chest, nails scraping just how he liked. When she tugged his shirt over his head, he sat back on his haunches to look at her, hair a golden halo on the pillow, lips swollen and red, cheeks flushed, eyes dark, "Gods above, you're stunning, Swan."

Emma responded to his romantic declaration like she did to nearly every other—an eye roll and a scoff that couldn't completely hide her smile.

She tugged on his necklace to pull him back to her. "You're an idiot."

"One of these days, you'll learn to accept the compliment."

"Shut up and kiss me, Captain."

He purred. "I do love it when you call me that."

"Again with the talking."

He chuckled darkly as he kissed her neck, light little kisses meant to tease until he reached her ear. He tugged on the lobe with his teeth. "Oh, but you like it when I talk, love," he said, voice low and soft. He undid the buttons on her shirt one by one, trailing kisses along each inch of skin that was slowly bared. "You like the sound of my voice, don't you?"

Her hands sifted through his hair as he finished unbuttoning her shirt. "So do you," she retorted breathily.

Killian chuckled lowly. "Do you think I could make you come with my voice?" he asked, an almost genuine note in his tone as he patiently pulled at the laces of her pants. "I'm tempted to try. Would you like to try, love?"

He spoke to her skin, his breath hot against her clenched stomach. Her nails dug into his scalp as his mouth steadily trailed lower as he slid her leathers off her hips. "Let's see how close we can get," he said lightly as his hands slowly skimmed along her calves. "I have a feeling you'll be begging for me before we can finish."

Emma tried to laugh but sighed instead. "Pirate."

"Aye, love," he confirmed as he began to slide his hands up her parted thighs. "And tonight," he breathed over her center, "I'm going to fuck you like one." He smiled when she shuddered beneath his hands. "You're already so wet for me, love," he noted, digging his fingers into her thighs to keep from touching her, to feel that wetness on his skin. "I do wish you could see it, but I suppose you can feel it, can't you? You're practically dripping."

 _Killian_. Emma bit her lip to keep from saying his name so pleadingly. Her hips began to squirm, searching blindly for relief as he just kept fucking talking. "Imagine how easily my cock will slide into you, Swan. It's for the best. I don't think I can love you gently tonight." Her breath hitched. "Oh, you like that idea, don't you, love?"

He kissed her inner thigh. "Just between us, darling, I'm aching, too." He pressed his hips into the mattress for even the slightest relief as he continued to speak, "I promise you, love, I want to touch you just as much as you want me to touch you. This is torture, Emma. To see you like this, so open to me, _begging_ for a taste . . . if we weren't playing this game, my tongue would be inside you." Emma whimpered. "You can feel it, can't you, love? I'd tease you until you were in tears before I finally wrapped my lips around your clit. Then I'd let you fuck yourself on my fingers. And you would, you know."

 _Damn him_.

"Killian," Emma arched her hips toward him. "Stop talking."

"And do what, love?" he breathed, his nose brushing against her soft curls. So close and not nearly close enough to where she needed him. "Tell me."

"Touch me."

"As you wish."

Emma nearly came when he wrapped his lips around her clit. A strangled curse fell from her lips as her hands reached for his head to keep him against her. Already she could feel her orgasm building, that familiar tightness, that slow build of heat that Killian stoked so easily with his tongue. Damn him. Bless him.

"Killian," she pleaded. "Please."

He knew what she wanted, and the cry that escaped her when he slid two fingers into her was loud enough to be embarrassing if she'd cared. But Emma was past caring. Smee could walk in and she'd tell him to just give her one minute.

Really, she was so far gone that that was all she needed.

True to his word, Killian teased her clit while she moved against his fingers that rubbed her walls so perfectly, curving just enough to hit that sweet spot that sent her falling with choked gasp. She trembled as she tried to catch her breath, unable to even reach for Killian as he contentedly kissed his way up her body, his hands gently kneading her breasts as he waited for her to get her wits back.

He smiled once her eyes opened and her hands began to stroke his back. "There's a good lass," he teased softly. He kissed her sweetly. "Ready for more, my love?"

Emma smiled. "Some pirate you are," she said, combing her fingers through his hair. "I didn't think pirates were so . . . sweet."

Killian grumbled even as he kissed her. "I'm not sweet," he insisted.

"Hmm. You promised to fuck me like a pirate," she whispered. "And just between us . . . I don't think you can do it, _Captain_."

Emma knew exactly what she was doing. This was a game they'd played in one way or another since they'd met. One of them always pushing, always daring, knowing the other couldn't resist the challenge. Sex was no different.

And when Killian sheathed himself in her without warning, her cry of pleasure was nearly a sigh of victory. She squeezed him, challenging him to take her harder, until he was pounding into her with enough force to shake the bed. She clutched onto whatever part of him she could reach and held on with a blissed smile.

"Yes," she encouraged. "Yes, just like that, babe."

"Fuck, Emma. Love, you need . . . fuck . . ."

God, she loved reducing him to this. All that eloquence replaced with wrecked curses and choked endearments. He was close. She swore she could feel it like it was her own pleasure. Maybe it was. Her hand slipped between them to rub quick circles against her clit, and Killian groaned at the sight.

"Emma, please," he begged. "Love . . . I . . ."

She began to shudder around him just when he came, a slew of curses and prayers on his lips as her walls fluttered around him. Completely spent, he collapsed on top of her, sparing her none of his weight for the moment, not that Emma minded. He was solid and warm and alive against her, his breath hot and labored in the crook of her neck, and she contentedly carded her fingers through his sweaty hair and down his glistening back.

When he gathered enough motivation to move, she tugged him back to her. Killian huffed on principle, though he could easily spend the rest of the night as he was if it were possible. Unfortunately, it wasn't. "I'm squishing you, love," he said.

"It's a good squish."

He chuckled warmly. "Aye," he agreed. "Alas, you need to breathe."

When he moved, she didn't stop him, though she shivered at the chill of cold hair against her rapidly cooling skin. Killian was back soon enough, dragging her pliant body into his side. She sighed contentedly as she laid her head on his chest. Her fingers drifted mindlessly over his ribs, brushing fondly against a familiar scar that had faded slightly with the years.

God, it felt like forever ago and yesterday at the same time.

"We should have done that the first night I was on this ship," she said, and he laughed.

"You wouldn't have let me near you."

"If you'd done _that_ , I would have."

"It wouldn't have meant anything," he admitted ruefully. "You would have been just another dalliance."

Emma sighed. "You would have been a one-time thing."

"Swan, I'm _never_ just a _one_ - _time_ _thing_." He let his fingers trail teasingly down her spine. "You'd have been back for more."

She snorted. "Cocky pirate, aren't you?"

"You would know."

She didn't want to, but she laughed. It faded quickly enough with a heavy, happy sigh. "We did things right for once, I guess," she said. "Imagine that."

"Imagine that, indeed," he agreed. "And you know, Swan, I was right back then."

She hummed. "About what?"

He grinned down at her. "We do make _quite_ the team."

* * *

 ***blushes***

 ***fans herself***

 ***gulps water***

 **You're welcome.**

 **Next time in Run Baby, Run . . . "What brings you here, Miss Swan?" - The Apprentice**

 **Yes, we actually have plot next chapter.**

 **See you then.**

 **-AC**


	31. Chapter 31

Author's Note: So this is late again, but last weekend was wedding weekend for my bff and this week school kicked my shapely ass.

Here's a chapter filled with fluff and plot.

* * *

Chapter 31

Emma didn't want to be awake.

It was still dark, the bed was ridiculously warm, Killian was using her as a body pillow, and she was fairly sure she hadn't gotten even four hours of sleep. Yet her eyes had opened anyway, her body fully alert and filled with the urge to move. There was a nagging feeling under her skin that made her want to squirm, as if she'd forgotten something. The problem was that she was sure there was nothing to have been forgotten in the first place.

It left her in a pickle.

She'd already spent fifteen minutes going over her and Killian's plans for the day, which amounted to sex, overseeing the refit of the ship, sex, dinner, and more sex. There wasn't exactly room in her schedule to forget something important—other than her birth control potion, which she _never_ forgot—and so Emma spent the next five minutes absently carding her fingers through Killian's hair and struggling to remember what she must have forgotten.

The answer came when her mind inevitably began to drift. The darkness of the room caused her eyes to droop, the warmth of the bed lulled her body into pliancy, and Killian's firm weight against her served as a barrier between her and the outside world. She relaxed, fingers still in his hair, as she thought once more about her first days in Queen's Port two years ago. She remembered how frustrated she'd been with him, how determined she'd been to get away from him and back to her world, her time.

Well, it wasn't as if she'd known about _that_ detail until she'd seen the Sorcerer.

Emma's eyes shot open.

No, not the Sorcerer. The Apprentice.

Maybe it was the need to come full circle. Maybe there was something else within her urging her to go, but Emma knew that she had to see the secretive old man. Slowly, she untangled herself from Killian, hoping that he wouldn't wake. She never lied to him, and so if he woke up and asked where she was going, she wouldn't be able to _not_ tell him.

And there was a strange surety in her gut that told her she needed to do this alone.

Thankfully, Killian only grumbled as she moved, his arms lazily chasing after her and when the search proved fruitless, latched onto her pillow instead. Emma smiled slightly and shook her head. For all his bluster, Killian Jones was still the biggest cuddler she knew.

Emma quickly dressed, though she paused when her hands reached for her brown leather coat. She tiptoed across the room to the wardrobe and prayed the hinges wouldn't creak as she opened the door. Carefully, she brushed past her shirts and vests and the occasional dress that Killian insisted she have even if she never wore it. Then she reached it. Tucked away in the very back, just as bright as it'd been two years ago, was her red leather jacket.

The material creaked as she put it on, and she imagined it looked a bit silly on top of her billowing white linen shirt, but it felt _good_. She'd missed it, the feeling of complete control, of total imperviousness. She was ready for battle.

The deck of the _Jolly_ was brisk, and Emma fought the urge to slip her hands into her pockets to fight the predawn chill. Instead, she took a deep breath and tried to focus. Though she had spent much of her spare time practicing her magic, it still surprised her on occasion. Sometimes she did things she had no idea she could do. Other times it just wouldn't cooperate.

She really hoped this go-round went according to plan.

Emma closed her eyes, pictured the Apprentice's cabin in her mind, and then threw up her hands.

It felt like her whole body falling asleep. Every muscle tingled, and she couldn't breathe. If it wasn't near-instant travel, Emma would never bother with it at all.

But it was just so damn convenient.

When it worked, anyway.

"Son of a bitch," she cursed as she opened her eyes to nothing but forest. Slowly, she turned, eyes searching for the familiar cabin with its small sheep corals and twining, smoky chimney. Nothing. "Killian's going to kill me," she muttered.

Though her sense of direction was decent, after spending another five minutes staring at the trees that all looked the same, Emma picked a random direction and began to walk. This had been a stupid idea. What had she been thinking? There was no reason to go see the old man. She was fine. She didn't want to go home. She _was_ home.

And that was, of course, the very second that she stepped into a familiar glade.

The Apprentice's cabin was exactly as she remembered it. Even in the grey light it was warm and inviting, the windows aglow, the chimney smoking. She even thought she could smell biscuits.

Emma swallowed back a faint shimmer of anxiety before resolutely striding forward. With every step she grew more and more certain that her arrival, just like last time, was expected. He opened the door just as she raised her fist to knock, causing her blink in surprise and awkwardly lower her hand. "Hi," she said.

The Apprentice smiled. "Hello, Miss Swan," he greeted before moving out of the doorway and gesturing her inside. "Please, come in. Would you like some tea?" he asked as he shuffled across to the fire flickering warmly in the hearth. "I've made biscuits. Feel free."

Emma smiled slightly at the old routine, taking a seat at the table and helping herself to biscuit. She quietly murmured her thanks when he handed her the tea, blowing on the steaming liquid before taking a tentative sip. "You knew I'd come," she said.

"I had a feeling, yes."

"Another tip from your boss?"

"Of a sort."

"Right."

They sat and sipped their tea. Emma searched for something to say to explain her presence, yet absolutely nothing came to mind other than the strange feeling she'd had when she had woken up. So she sat and drank her tea, and once it was gone, she reached for another biscuit. Just why _was_ she here? It had to mean something, didn't it?

"What brings you here, Miss Swan? Are you not happy with Captain Jones?"

Her eyes darted to him. "How do you know I'm still with him?"

His eyes twinkled despite the way they innocently widened. "Was I wrong to assume?"

"Did you know?"

"Know what?"

Emma huffed and waved her hand vaguely in the air. "The True Love thing."

"It was one of many possibilities the Sorcerer foresaw," the Apprentice admitted with an almost sheepish smile. "There are many paths one can take in their life. You chose one of many when you decided to stop running."

"What do you mean? Are you saying that I could have—"

"Returned to your own time? Oh, yes."

"But you said that it was impossible."

"By all means, quite so. Yet you would have found a way, if it'd been your wish."

Emma frowned. "Do I . . . Do I _have_ to go back?"

The Apprentice hummed as he leaned back in his chair. "That is a curious question, isn't it? Time is a funny thing, Miss Swan. It's not as we think, this sort of strict linearity. Time is . . . malleable, shall we say."

"So I don't have to go back? I can stay."

"Do you want to leave?"

Her answer was quick and sure. "No."

"Then you have chosen your path."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that you have chosen this life you've created, Miss Swan. For better or worse, as they say."

His words made Emma swallow back the sudden lump in her throat. While she was sure of her decision to stay, there was an undeniable sense of foreboding in the Apprentice's tone, something in the heaviness of his sigh, the clouded look in his eyes, that made her want to shake him until he gave her a straight answer. "You know something," she said.

"I know many things that a man should not know."

Emma rolled her eyes. "Can it with the riddles, Dumbledore," she said. "I know you're hiding something. What is it?"

"I cannot say."

"Says who?"

"One far more powerful than me."

"Great. I don't suppose you could give him a call?"

"I doubt he would answer."

"Of course not."

"Emma." The Apprentice said her name heavily, quietly, yet with a touch of what almost seemed like fondness. Or perhaps pity. Emma eyed him warily as he stood and ambled toward the fire. He busied himself with removing the once again steaming kettle and pouring more tea. "I cannot give you the answers you seek," he said eventually. "It is not in my power to do so. I can only warn you."

"This path you have chosen, like any other, is fraught with just as much hardship as happiness. Though I fear that the happiness you and your pirate have so greatly enjoyed is nearing its end," he said. "There's a storm coming, Miss Swan, one you must weather if you wish to keep this life you've chosen."

Emma clenched her hands around her mug despite the heat. "What do I do?"

"Beware, Miss Swan. Not everyone is as they seem and the consequences of a single, simple action can be far greater than anyone can foresee."

"Who?" Emma demanded. "Who is he? She? How do I know . . ." she trailed off as the Apprentice continued to merely stare. "You're not going to say anymore, are you?"

"It is not my place. Certain things must come to pass."

"I thought you said that I had a choice."

"And so you've made it. Yet perhaps the only change in events is your presence, and not the event itself."

"What? So I can't do anything?"

"No, Emma. There is always something you can do, so long as you're strong enough to do it." The old man glanced toward the window. "The sun will soon be up."

Emma's gut tightened. Killian. "I have to go," she said.

The Apprentice stood. "Of course." He walked with her to the door, opening it for her and seeing her out. Just as he had two years earlier, he hovered in the doorway as she lingered outside, and when Emma turned around he wore a patient, expectant look.

"Did you know?" she asked. "About my magic?"

"My dear, I knew the moment you entered this realm. You are far more powerful than you know."

"What does that mean?"

"All will be clear in time."

Emma thought about pursuing the subject. He knew something. Just as she'd known that he knew about the pen, she was certain that he knew something about her magic. Something big. Something important. Yet she knew he wouldn't tell her, just as he wouldn't tell her what was coming. Regardless of his ineffectual answers, Emma still felt a strange connection to the man.

"Thanks for the tea," she said.

"You're quite welcome. To be quite honest, I rarely receive visitors."

Emma smiled slightly. "Right."

"One question before you go," he said, holding up a finger. "The hourglass I gave you . . . does the sand stand still?"

The hourglass. Emma blinked. "I haven't even looked at it," she admitted. "Should I?"

The Apprentice smiled. "I was merely curious."

"Right." Emma ignored the sinking feeling in her gut. "Well, I'll . . . see you around, I guess," she said before closing her eyes and thinking of the _Jolly._

The effect of being on the water was immediate. She relaxed at the gentle shifting of the ship, the soft groan of the planks, the gentle salt breeze that ruffled her hair. _Home_. Thoughts of forests and sorcerers and riddles faded from her mind as she quietly treaded down the hatch to the Captain's quarters. Killian was as she'd left him, though he'd since rolled completely onto his stomach to bury his face in his pillow. She smiled as she undressed. Easing herself onto the bed, she carefully straddled him and began to trail her lips and hands over his back, paying particular attention to the newest scars from the whip that he'd refused to let her heal.

He groaned sleepily under her ministrations, muscles flexing beneath her as he shifted and stretched. He flopped over onto his back to look at her with heavy blue eyes that steadily lightened as he took her in. A lazy smile appeared as his hands slid up her thighs to her hips. "Now, that's a sight to wake up to," he murmured. "Or am I dreaming? Because it _looks_ like there's a gorgeous blonde naked woman on top of me." His hands skimmed across her stomach to her breasts. "Very, very naked," he said as he slowly sat up, eyes clearer. He kissed between her breasts. "Is she mine?"

Emma smirked. "It's your dream."

His hands gripped her hips, pushing her down onto his straining erection. Emma gasped. "Aye," he said. "Why don't I show you how it ends?"

Emma found it all too easy to forget every last word the Apprentice had said. All he had to give was riddles, but _this_ she understood. This—her and Killian—this she knew was _real_.

Andthat was all she cared about.

* * *

Killian eyed the small port with an appraising glance. He had never docked at this particular port, though there were no rumors of ill-will concerning pirates, and so he carefully maneuvered the _Jolly_ into a slip, noting with some pride and amusement that his ship made the little dinghies and fishing vessels look like toys a boy would play with in a bath.

"Mr. Smee!"

Smee came scrambling as usual, cheeks red with exertion and the first bite of winter's chill. Even Killian could feel the wind through his coat. "Yes, Captain? What can I do for you?"

Killian handed him the list of supplies. "Take Williams and see that our orders are placed," he said. "I want to be out of here no later than noon tomorrow." He handed over a purse of gold. "Make sure there's no problems with our request."

Smee took the purse with shiny, greedy eyes. "Yes, Captain."

"And Smee?"

"Yes?"

"I know exactly how much gold is in that purse. See that a suitable amount is returned to me."

"A-Aye, sir."

Killian shook his head as Smee suddenly straightened his spine as he shouted at Williams to accompany him. The rat of a man didn't have a backbone until he felt like he had some sort of power, a quality that while useful for a first mate was at times nearly painful to watch. "I'll never trust that one," a wry voice said before arms wrapped around him from behind. "He's twitchy."

Killian grinned and raised his arm to tug Emma around to his side. "Aye, love, but useful."

"You know, you've said that before but I haven't seen anything to prove it."

"Smee has a rather fortuitous knack for acquiring particular items of value."

Emma raised her eyebrows. "You could have just said thief."

"That would be doing Smee a disservice, Swan. He's unremarkable yet trustworthy, as far as appearances go. It's a trait he's used to his advantage."

"And yours."

He grinned. "On occasion."

She rolled her eyes and then shivered. "It's getting colder," she stated obviously and then frowned. "I don't like it."

Killian pounced on the opportunity, pulling her closer and wrapping both arms around her. "I'll keep you warm, darling. Don't fret."

Emma hummed with a smile as she looked up at him. "I'm counting on that," she said before the wind blew yet again, sending cold mist from the water up to bite her skin. She shivered and turned her face into Killian's chest with an annoyed groan that made him chuckle.

"Come on, Swan," he said. "Let's find you a fire."

Ordering a handful of the crew to stay behind and appointing Vincent in charge, Killian led Emma into the small port town. It was the smallest village Emma had yet to visit in the Enchanted Forest, and she imagined that if they had been in her world, it would have been the equivalent of a four-way stop. There was a single tavern next to a handful of empty stalls that Emma thought were likely only half full at market.

Luckily, the tavern was warm and cozy, and no one seemed to look twice at them. Well, not everyone. The moment they were through the door, every single wench had eyed Killian hungrily and then glared at her as if she'd spoiled Christmas. With a small smirk, Emma acknowledged that she very likely had, and clung to Killian just a bit tighter. Sometimes it still felt novel to subtly declare to the world that _this_ dashing rapscallion was hers.

Killian glanced down at her with a knowing smirk. "Feeling territorial tonight, love?" he teased. "I like it."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not territorial."

"Possessive."

"No, buddy. That's you."

"What? I think not."

"Two words. Port. Royal."

Killian's eyes narrowed. "The git had it coming."

"He bought me a drink."

"He grabbed your arse."

"I could have handled it."

"Aye," he agreed with a smile before pulling her to him and placing both hands pointedly on her ass. "But only I get to touch your arse, love."

She rolled her eyes and scoffed, pushing away from him, but Killian knew that she secretly liked his more "caveman" tendencies, as she liked to call it. Few people had ever cared enough to call her theirs, and every now and then Killian liked to remind her that he was the exception. She was _his_ and he didn't share—least of all with drunken midshipmen looking for a quick fuck.

They ordered a plate of meat, cheese, and bread and picked a place toward the back where they had a clear view of the room. It was a new port, and so Killian knew no one, which meant that he couldn't afford to leave his back turned. He sat with his arm around Emma's shoulders, his fingers rubbing gentle patterns up and down her arm as he watched his crew steadily create a riot within the small tavern.

Emma shifted beside him once the voices at the gambling tables began to get too angry for her tastes. "You better go over there," she said.

Killian didn't move. "What's a little fight, love?" he asked with a slight shrug before kissing her temple as he nuzzled her hair, grinning when she squirmed as he licked behind her ear. "Let the lads have it out."

"And then _we'll_ be _kicked_ out," she returned, giving him a shove. "Go put an end to it before it gets out of hand."

Killian huffed but stood. "As you wish," he said, causing Emma's lips to twitch.

Hearing those words never failed to make her grin, and for the life of him, Killian couldn't figure out just why—it was as if he was missing a joke. Shaking off the thought, he crossed the tavern to the gambling tables where a handful of his men were cheating none too subtly and the usual patrons were, appropriately, none too pleased. He sighed internally. Two years ago he wouldn't have given one bloody fuck. Now look at him. One word from his Swan and he was playing mediator.

He really must love her.

"What do we have here, lads?" he said as he shoved the man closest to him out of his seat, grabbed the back, spun it around, and then sat. He propped one arm lazily across the back of the chair while he gestured toward the table in front of him with his other hand. "Looks like a right good game."

"Good game, my arse," one of them men spat. "They're cheating."

"How do you know?"

"I saw them switch out the dice!"

Killian turned toward his crew, who looked either tellingly defiant or uneasy. He barely held in a scoff. By the gods, if you were going to cheat, you bloody well did it _right_. "Well, we can't have that now, can we?" he said before reaching into his pocket and retrieving his own dice. "Use mine. Unbiased third party."

One scoffed. "Like I'd trust you. You're a dirty pirate."

"I bathe quite frequently, thank you very much," Killian retorted. "But you do have the last bit right." He offered his hand. "Captain Killian Jones of the _Jolly Roger_."

It caused him no small amount of pride to watch the men pause over his name. The blaze of righteous anger in their eyes dulled to a subdued wariness, and Killian smiled brightly like a shark. "Now, I insist we put this nonsense behind us, mates," he continued. "There are, after all, ladies present," he said, directing his words more toward his men, who all glanced across the bar at Emma.

Everyone knew not to upset Emma. Upsetting Emma meant upsetting Killian and of the two, every man aboard the _Jolly_ knew which was worse. "Since the game is quite obviously rigged, as you say, let's have the original dice, shall we?" he said, holding out his hand toward Bellamy, who reluctantly handed over the dice he had switched for his own. Killian grinned. "Now," he said, turning toward the others. "Only fair to have those back," he reached for the dice in the middle of the table, and then, in a canny sleight of hand (if he did say so himself) "replaced" the dice. "There. Continue on, lads. We're all men of our word, after all."

Rising from the chair, he tauntingly offered it back to the man he'd stolen it from with a grand sweep of his arm, and then started back toward Emma. Perhaps she would reward him for his goodwill, and he could convince her to return to the _Jolly_ early. He was running through strategies when he saw a giant oaf of a man trip and spill his ale over a woman sitting at a table by herself. Then, in a move far too drunk to be remotely subtle, he began to attempt to clean the spill, which amounted to little more than groping the woman.

Honestly, were there no gentlemen left in the world?

"Stop it! I've got it," the woman insisted as the man continued to pat her.

Killian quickly closed the distance between them, placing an arm between the woman and the idiot who reeked of sweat and ale. "Leave the lady alone," he said, expecting a fight and quite honestly hoping for one. It'd been far too long since his last brawl (truly, they were good fun), and despite how Emma would scold him with words like _Neanderthal_ and _testosterone_ he enjoyed the way her fingers would flutter over him to assess bruises and cuts.

The Idiot glared at him and gave him a shove. "What are you gonna do about it?"

Killian pretended to think about it. "Well . . ." His fist hit the oaf neatly in the jaw, sending him tumbling to the ground, out cold. Killian took a moment to grin at his work and the throb in his knuckles before neatly plucking a drink off a passing bar wench's tray. He straddled the bench next to the woman and set the drink down. "A drink for the lady," he said.

She was a beautiful woman, too beautiful for a place like this. Long, thick mahogany hair with equally warm, if startled brown eyes. She was older. There were fine lines at the corners of her eyes, yet not enough to make Killian think that she smiled as much as she should. There was a sadness to her that he recognized. She reminded him of a marooned sailor. Trapped on land, desperate to be free.

"Thank you, sir," she said, her voice soft yet not timid. Curious.

"Captain Killian Jones," he took her hand and kissed her knuckles, "at your service."

She looked him over, eyes lingering on his chest that was displayed between the V of his shirt and vest. "That doesn't look to be the uniform of any Navy I've—" Killian couldn't help but smile, and she paused as her eyes widened. Not out of fear, but in excitement. "Oh," she breathed. "You're a—"

"Well, they call us pirates," Killian said with a grin. "We sail where we will and answer to no Crown."

"I've not seen the ocean much beyond our small port," she admitted, a note of longing in her voice. "Is it wonderful to travel so much?"

"Aye," Killian agreed. "Particularly when such wonders are shared with someone you love." His eyes strayed toward Emma without a thought, and the woman followed his gaze.

"She's beautiful," she said as Emma laughed at something Bee said. "Is she your wife?"

"One day," Killian smiled, "when I can convince her it's a good idea."

"And she's a pirate, too?"

"In her own way. More than a match for me, at any rate." He eyed her. "And what about you? What's keeping you here?"

"Responsibilities," she said, glancing down at the table. "An ailing child, a husband . . ."

Killian stared at her. She was dreadfully unhappy, that much was plain, and something about her called to him. He didn't know if it was the sadness in her eyes that he imagined were meant to burn bright or if it was the barely restrained curiosity in her voice as she questioned him about his life and its freedom. There was a gentle sort of wonder in her eyes that made him want to show her the world. Perhaps then she'd smile.

If he hadn't met Emma first, he was quite certain he would have fallen in love with her.

"I'll tell you what, lass," he said. "I imagine I will be returning to this port quite often. Perhaps I could share with you an adventure or two."

She smiled then, barely a flutter but it made her look ten years younger. "I'd like that, Captain Jones," she said before glancing over at Emma, who happened to look up to meet her gaze. "I think your lover would rather you sit with her."

Killian smirked. "She's lying to herself when she insists she's not territorial," he said, more to himself.

"If my husband looked like you, I'd be much the same."

He laughed. "What's your name, lass?"

And she smiled then, a real smile. "Milah."

He nodded respectfully. "Until next time, then, Milah."

* * *

Emma raised her eyebrows when he slid onto the bench next to her. "Should I be worried?" she teased.

"Nonsense, Swan," Killian said as he leaned toward her. "My heart is and forever shall be yours." He kissed her sweetly, yet when he pulled away he was quiet, and she sensed that his mind was elsewhere.

Her eyes trailed back across the tavern to where Milah sat alone, still nursing her drink. She frowned. "She looks lonely," she said.

"Aye, love. I reckon she is. She's not meant to be trapped in this life."

"What do you mean?"

"I see a bit of myself in her, I suppose," Killian admitted as he turned to look at her. "When I was in the Navy, I was very proud of it," he said. "It felt like a bit of a miracle. I'd thought I'd ruined my and Liam's chances of ever getting off that wretched ship. Then, there was that typhoon, and she sank. Liam and I were the only survivors, and we got ourselves a Naval commission just like that. I'd never felt lucky until that day, Swan."

Emma placed her hand on his leg. She knew the story. "But you made something out of yourself," she said.

"Oh, aye," he agreed. "I threw myself into training, rose through the ranks faster than anyone save Liam." He shook his head and frowned thoughtfully. "But for all the learning I'd done, for all the station I'd gained, that uniform always felt a bit . . . stifling. I wasn't like Liam. I didn't have the patience to deal with the Crown, and I hardly respected the natural order. I couldn't have served under anyone other than Liam." He grinned slightly. "Likely would've gone pirate much sooner if that had happened."

Emma stared at Milah. "So she's trapped, too?" she said. "She's in a life not meant for her."

"Not entirely, at any rate," Killian agreed. "No one should live a life where they feel trapped."

Emma laid her head on his shoulder. "You're right," she agreed. "What's her name?"

"Milah."

Emma hummed thoughtfully. "Pretty name."

She had no idea that that name was the first domino that would send her life spiraling out of control.

* * *

Yep, enter Milah.

Since I keep missing updates and final projects are approaching school-wise, I'm going to start updating every other Friday. Hopefully that will give me more time to write.

Next time. . . . "I wanted to tell you." - Emma


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: Thank you guys so much for all the reviews and most of all, your patience. I've always been very proud of the fact that I have no unfinished stories, and that those stories were consistently updated at least once a week. (Can you believe that at one point I updated twice a week? I can't). Anyway, I don't care for this update every two weeks business. It's not fun for me, but school is kicking my ass, work is fucking me over, and Lord help me, I'm training for the military in what little spare time I have.**

 **Let's just say I'm really looking forward to Christmas Break.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own it. Not mine.**

* * *

Chapter 32

For the second day in a row, Emma woke up with a twisty feeling in her stomach. This time, however, was different. She didn't feel as if she'd forgotten something. She felt like she was going to vomit.

She closed her eyes tightly and swallowed, placing a hand on her head that felt clammy. She prayed she wasn't coming down with the flu. The Enchanted Forest didn't exactly have Tylenol and microwaves for chicken noodle soup. Or a couch to lounge on while she watched a marathon of some HGTV show.

Sometimes she really missed her realm.

Emma laid still as she fought her nausea, for once not finding the lulling sway of the ship comforting. It was hell, but she refused to puke. There was no way she could avoid waking Killian, and she refused to treat him to the disgusting sight of her throwing up her guts into a chamber pot. So she tried to keep as still as possible, ignore the rock of the ship, and swallow down the bile that kept rising in her throat.

Miraculously, she managed to fall back asleep, and when she woke again, it was to a sensation far more pleasant. She smiled, eyes still closed, as Killian sighed into her neck before placing a kiss under her jaw. His hand was a warm weight on her stomach, fingers wrapping around the curve of her waist. "Morning," she greeted sleepily.

"Morning," he replied with a groan as he stretched. He huffed and cuddled closer to her, letting his head rest on her chest. Emma absently began to card her fingers through his hair. God, did she love his hair. It was ridiculously silky and it felt good between her fingers. She let her nails lightly drag along his scalp and he sighed. "If you keep that up, love, I'm going to fall back asleep." She let her hand drift lower so that she was drawing mindless patterns on his back. "That's not much better," he added, though he made no attempt to move.

Emma smiled. Truth be told, she didn't cuddle. It wasn't in her nature. Foster homes had led her to covet personal space. She'd lived in far too many crowded, cramped bedrooms with too many other children to think that sharing her space was a good idea.

But Killian liked to cuddle.

So she cuddled.

And lo and behold, she'd developed a bit of a soft spot for it.

She let her nails scrap against the short hairs at the base of his neck. "You know, babe, you've got to get up eventually."

He mumbled into her skin. "No."

"Really?" she said lightly. "All those strangers on your ship without you to oversee them? How daring you've become, Captain."

Killian lifted his head. "You're in quite the good mood this morning."

"I had a good night."

He grinned, suddenly looking far more awake. "Aye, love," he agreed as he kissed her cheek. "That we did." He playfully caught her earlobe with his teeth. When his hands began to wander, she caught his wrist. He pouted. "Since when are you the logical one?"

"Since the supplies are going to arrive any minute, and you're still naked."

"You say that as if it's a bad thing, Swan."

"No, it's just not the opportune moment."

His face twisted. "You realize you're quoting Jack when _I'm_ the one that's naked?"

"You say that as if it's a bad thing," she teased.

He growled before claiming her lips. The kiss was rough and possessive and Emma smugly reveled in it. Her pirate was so easy to rile sometimes. When he finally let her breathe, he said, "The only man you should think about is me."

"Especially when you're naked."

"Darling, if you're not thinking about me when I'm naked, I've decidedly done something wrong over the last two years."

She laughed and kissed him. "Go," she gave him a light shove that only moved him because he allowed it. "Be a captain. Boss people around."

"Sounds like you're the one giving orders today, love."

Emma admired him as he stood and stretched, propping herself up on her elbow as she watched him dress, smiling whenever Killian looked at her with a knowing smirk. "And when shall you be joining me?" he asked once he'd shrugged into his coat.

Emma shrugged one bare shoulder. "When I feel like it."

He smiled faintly. "Fair enough."

He pecked her lips and then bounded up the stairs to the deck. Emma watched him go before falling back onto the bed and letting her body sink into the mattress. She didn't want to move. There was a heavy sense of calm in her veins. It almost felt criminal to get out of bed.

She contentedly dozed on and off until the noise above deck grew too loud to ignore. That, and she wasn't entirely comfortable lazing naked in bed with forty men stomping around above her. Yet the moment she stood, she regretted it. An intense wave of vertigo struck her, so much so that she nearly fell back onto the bed. Holding out a steadying hand to center herself, Emma closed her eyes and waited for the sensation to pass.

Yep. Definitely should have passed the day in bed.

Emma felt worse the longer she moved. By the time she was dressed, she was once again forcing down nausea, but that didn't stop her from determinedly grabbing her coat and climbing the steps to the deck. The deck was a circus of activity. It appeared as though every merchant in town was aboard the _Jolly_ hauling crates of supplies. Spices, fruit, paraffin, linen, the whole nine. They hadn't refitted the ship like this in months.

If she hadn't been swallowing down bile, Emma would have wondered just where Killian planned on going.

As it was, the world began to blur and change. Killian's voice sounded distorted as he barked orders, and the ship might as well have been doing cartwheels for all the purchase she felt beneath her feet. Emma barely made it to the rail before she threw up what little was in her stomach. Her eyes watered as her stomach continued to heave, and when she felt someone gather her hair she weakly shoved them away. "Ugh, no. Go away," she ordered pathetically as she tried to take deep breaths and force the world to stop spinning.

"Emma, what's wrong?" Killian asked, ignoring her pitiful attempts to push him away. "You were fine just a moment ago."

She shook her head. "I woke up before that feeling like this," she admitted. "Maybe it was just a fluke. I'm fine." She wiped her mouth and took a deep breath. "Really. Must have been something I ate."

Killian didn't quite believe her. "You should lie down."

"Killian, I said I'm fine."

He knew better than to argue when he saw her jaw set and her eyes narrow. So he nodded and sighed. "At least take things slow today, love," he bargained.

Emma huffed a little but agreed. "Fine. I'll just run into town and get something." Killian opened his mouth to argue, but she held up a hand. "I'm not running a mile, babe," she said. "I promise to leisurely stroll."

He kissed her temple. "If you're not back by noon, I'm leaving without you. So don't take _too_ long." He smiled when she snorted. "Be careful, Swan."

"Always."

Navigating land proved slightly better for her lingering nausea. The longer that Emma walked (leisurely, as promised) the fainter her nausea became until it disappeared entirely. Still, Emma continued on her way to the apothecary. She'd thought she'd spotted the stall last night. Apothecaries tended to set up shop separate from the rest of the market for privacy purposes since not everyone wanted to broadcast their purchases to the whole market. Some things were best dealt with in private.

It wasn't like she felt the need to let the whole market know she was buying birth control . . .

Emma stopped walking.

 _No_.

Absolutely _not_.

There was _no_ fucking way she could be . . .

"Are you alright?"

Emma blinked. "Yeah," she breathed, raising a shaking hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. When she noticed herself trembling she closed her fist and held it tightly at her side. "I'm fine. I'm . . . I'm fine."

Yes, she was fine. Totally fine. She _had_ to be fine.

It was only when she managed to focus her frayed nerves that she recognized her Good Samaritan. "Milah."

Milah smiled slightly. "Yes. And you're . . .?"

"Emma."

"I thought you were to set sail today."

"We are. I just . . . need to get something."

She was fine. She was fine. She was fine. She wasn't . . . she just _wasn't._

Dark eyes narrowed as Milah's womanly intuition flared. She glanced ahead at the apothecary and then back to Emma, whose clenched fist unknowingly rested on her abdomen. "Does he know?" she asked.

Emma's eyes widened. "Know what?"

"That you're with child."

"I'm _not_ ," Emma insisted, nearly angry. She winced. Her breaths began to come quicker and her nausea began to return. She swallowed. "I _can't_ be . . . I can't . . ."

Milah had no qualms about being blunt. "Do you wish to be rid of it?"

That finally made Emma come back to herself. For a brief moment, the nausea faded and the panic in her chest dulled. Her fist unclenched to cradle her stomach. "No," she said firmly.

Even before, in prison when she'd found out she was pregnant, Emma had barely entertained the thought. The prison doctor had given her the option, had talked briefly about the procedure, and assured her that many women did it and went on with their lives. Emma couldn't imagine it. She and her baby had both been innocent, and Emma had hoped that at least one of them could live happily.

But this was different. Her decision was the same, but the circumstances . . . oh, the circumstances couldn't be more different. She wasn't in prison. She had a guy she loved, who loved her, who—if she told him her suspicions—would very likely jump up and down like a little boy at Christmas.

And it was that certainty that, strangely, instead of reassuring her, absolutely, completely, terrified her.

Because she wasn't ready.

Dammit, she was supposed to have five years. That had been the deal.

"Emma? I didn't mean to upset you."

Emma shook her head. "No, it was a . . . logical question. Look, I don't even know if I'm," she swallowed, " _pregnant_. I just had a thought."

Milah smiled slightly and put a comforting hand on Emma's arm. "Is it such a terrible thought to have?"

"No, I just . . ." Emma shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I don't know for sure, and that's no reason to have a meltdown." Milah's nose twitched at the unfamiliar term, but she said nothing. "I don't even know why I'm telling you this."

"I imagine a ship full of men is not the place for more . . . womanly conversations."

Emma snorted. Plus, it wasn't as if she could write to Elizabeth. She couldn't just put something like this in a letter. She suddenly fervently wished for her friend to be in Milah's place. Elizabeth would know what to do. Surely she and Jack had had a few scares?

That's what this was. A scare. She just had to wait for her period. It would come. It always did.

Except . . . oh, god she _was_ late.

"Emma." Milah gave the younger woman a shake with a worried frown. "I would like it very much if you could stop going so quiet. It's unsettling. Would you like to go back to the _Jolly Roger_? Or I could send word for Captain Jones to—"

"No," Emma said quickly. "No, don't send for Killian. He'll take one look at me and _know_ and I can't . . . I need to know for sure before I . . . before I say anything."

Milah frowned. "Do you fear his reaction?"

Emma's answering laugh was strained. "Not for the reason you'd think. No, he'll be . . . he'd be ecstatic."

"But you're not."

"It's complicated."

Walls that she'd left down for years suddenly sprang right back up as though they'd never fallen, and Emma gladly retreated behind them. She straightened her back and took a deep breath. "Thanks for stopping to see if I was alright," she said. "But I'll be fine."

Milah's eyes narrowed, judging, and Emma tensed even further. It didn't matter if the woman was merely debating the honesty in her words or whether she was lying about her feelings about her maybe/maybe not pregnancy. Emma still felt as if she was being weighed and measured.

And found lacking.

"If that is what you truly believe," Milah eventually said, "then I wish you well."

"Thank you."

Emma walked away before Milah could ask more questions. She didn't go to the apothecary, but she didn't return to the ship. No, she loitered around town until she couldn't risk another minute without Killian sending someone to look for her. Sure enough, as soon as she stepped aboard, Vincent met her with a concerned look in his eye.

"We were about to look for you, lass," he said. "Where've you been?"

"Nowhere. Are we ready to go?"

"Aye, but—"

"If Killian asks, I'll be below."

"Emma, wait. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Emma said, stressing the word as if she could make it true. "Everything's fine."

* * *

They were bound for a faraway island in a kingdom called Arendale, and it didn't take Killian two hours into their journey before he came to the conclusion that Emma was avoiding him. At first he thought little of it. She wouldn't be his Swan if she didn't pull away from him occasionally. True Love didn't magically make it so that they never fought—because by the gods, could they _fight_. Killian actually thought of it as more of a battle. A bloody one.

They loved each other because they wanted to; they'd chosen each other. That was how it worked. It worked because they _tried_.

But for the life of him, after days of silence, Killian couldn't figure out just what he'd done to endure such coldness. Initially he'd thought that perhaps she wasn't thrilled with his choice of destination. Arendale was, after all, the lead ice exporter in the realm, and his Swan was no fan of the cold. Yet it seemed unusually petty of her to hold such a thing against him for so long.

Every time he attempted to ask her what was wrong, it only made her more upset.

And what bloody sense did _that_ make?

A week into their abrupt distance, Killian was just as upset as Emma, for no other reason than he now felt obligated to deal with her snappy barbs and sarcastic retorts with an equal measure of anger and frustration. It worked beautifully until the façade shattered on the ninth day when he came down to their quarters and found her crying. She hastily tried to hide the evidence, turning away from him even as she plainly raised her sleeve to her cheeks and sniffled. "I'm fine," she said preemptively, her voice thick but steady.

It pained him to see her like this, walls up and heavily fortified. "Emma," he murmured, taking a step toward her. "Darling, please." He held her face in his hands. She stared at his necklace. "Don't shut me out," he pleaded quietly. "What can I do?"

Emma shuddered against the sob that wanted to break free. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. "It's nothing," she said, forcing herself to look up only to glance away the moment his eyes met hers. "I thought it was something, but it's not."

Killian frowned. "Swan, you're not making sense."

"I thought I . . ." she trailed off, the words catching in her throat. "I . . ."

She flinched when Killian tenderly coaxed her to look at him. His thumbs wiped at silent tears she hadn't realized had fallen. "What?" he asked.

"I thought I was pregnant."

Killian stilled as she said the very last thing he expected. Pregnant? He felt a brief, glorious rush of joy and excitement at the thought. He very nearly smiled. For a slow, beautiful second, he fought the urge to pick her up and spin her in a circle. And then the moment passed.

She'd _thought_ she was pregnant.

"And you're not," he said, managing to keep his voice soft and lulling. Emma's feelings were his priority. He could sort his own later. "Are you okay?"

Her chin trembled. "I don't know."

"So this past week, with you avoiding me—"

"I wanted to tell you," she said regretfully. "But I couldn't."

"Why?"

"Because I had to be sure. I . . . I _needed_ to know for sure."

Killian could understand that. "Alright," he said. "And now that you are sure?"

Emma stared at him as if he held the answer. When he could offer her none, her eyes fell once again to his chest. To his relief, she stepped into him and he readily wrapped his arms around her. Gods, he'd missed her. She kept her hands on his chest, one curled around his vest and the other wrapped around the charms of his necklace.

"I was scared," she admitted in a whisper. "I was so scared."

"Of me?"

"Of everything. I didn't think, I'm not . . . I don't know if I could do it again."

Killian tensed briefly. He would never have brought it up before she did, and in the two years he'd known and loved her, he'd noticed them—the faint white lines on her stomach, nearly invisible unless you knew where to look. His Swan had a child.

It didn't matter to him. It didn't make him love her less. He thought that perhaps the child had died or perhaps had been sent away for its own good. He knew his Swan. Those were the only options. She never would have stayed in the Enchanted Forest if she had a child to care for.

So he'd been content to wait for an answer, and even more so, content to never receive one.

Yet she'd opened that door, and he was hopeless not to walk through it. "Again, love?" he questioned.

Emma fiddled with the charms on his necklace that she knew so well. Two more charms had been added since she'd met him: a swan and a sword. She rubbed her thumb over the swan. "I haven't told you everything," she said. "About . . . about what happened with Neal."

She tensed when he did at the mention of the name. Yet before she could pull away, Killian's arms tightened around her. "You don't have to tell me, Emma," he said quietly. "But don't pull away from me. I can't . . . I don't like it. It—"

"Hurts," she finished, her voice subdued. "I'm sorry."

Killian knew the look in her eyes. She got that look occasionally when she did something like this: pulled away or let her temper get the best of her. It was one of guilt, or rather the desire to make amends, to repent, and he didn't want her to ever feel like she owed him. "You never have to apologize to me, Swan," he said, stroking her cheek and leaning closer. "I love you."

Emma gave him a faint smile in return. "I love you, too."

"You don't have to tell me the rest of the story," he repeated, but she shook her head.

"Yes, I do," she said. "You . . . you should know . . . and probably sit down."

Killian took her hand to take her with him, but when she gently resisted, he wordlessly accepted her plea for space and sat on the bed while she hugged herself and shifted her weight from foot to foot. Emma glanced at him as she twisted her hands before she grew frustrated with her own nerves and huffed, keeping her hands at her sides. "So Neal framed me, and I went to prison," she began, knowing that he knew that but feeling the need to start from the beginning. "I was seventeen, and it was maybe a month or so before I knew something was . . . wrong." Killian frowned at her use of the word and she flinched. "I was young and stupid. My cycle was never regular, I didn't keep track of it, and prison just . . . I wasn't really inclined to care about, well, anything."

What Killian wanted to do was get off the bloody bed and go to her. What Killian _wanted_ to do was wrap Emma in his arms and never let her go until she acknowledged how godsdamn special she was and how she hadn't deserved _any_ of this. But he didn't move. He stayed away.

Because if he went to her, she would cry, and he knew that she didn't want to do that. She needed to be strong, all by herself, to remind herself that she _could_. So he let her.

"I was two months along," she whispered. "I'd been pregnant before I'd gotten locked up, but I hadn't known. There was no way Neal could have known, but I . . . I hated him even more once I found out. That he could do that to me, to . . ." She shook her head. "I was so scared, at first, but . . . it wasn't so bad after a while. I wasn't . . . I wasn't alone anymore."

Tears welled in her eyes, but Emma set her jaw defiantly, refusing to let them fall. Killian nearly went to her then. She didn't _have_ to be so strong all the time, but even after two years together, she rarely let herself be this vulnerable with him, rarely let him share some of her burden. But gods, if there was any time to remind her that he was _here_ , it was now.

"Swan—" he began, but she talked over him, words steadily falling faster from her lips as if she was exorcising a demon.

"I didn't want to give birth," she said. "I didn't want to lose it. I wanted to keep it. With me. But I went into labor, and it _hurt_ , and no one really cared, and I was handcuffed. I was still a prisoner, and it wasn't. I couldn't keep it, so I gave it away. I _had_ to give it away, Killian. I had to give it its best chance and that wasn't with me."

Emma shook and trembled. Her chin wobbled as she tried desperately to hold in her tears that kept silently falling anyway. She looked so incredibly small and alone, like she was a teenager all over again, and Killian's resolve snapped. Though he wanted to close the distance between them in two easy, quick strides, he forced himself to move slower, to give her a chance to push him away if it was what she wanted—although, truthfully, at this point he thought he'd likely ignore her wishes.

Thankfully, he didn't have to make the choice. Emma chose for him. She reached out a shaking hand and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, and that was all the prompt he needed. His arms were around her in the next second, and Emma burrowed into him as if she could hide in his chest forever. Killian thought it more likely that she simply didn't want him to see her cry.

He still felt her tears steadily soak his shirt.

"You did what you thought was right, love," he said once she'd quieted. "There's no shame in that."

"I didn't even hold it," she whimpered. "I knew that I . . . I wouldn't be able to let him go."

Killian ran a soothing hand down her back. "Him?"

Emma sniffed. "I never asked, but I _knew_ it was a boy."

"Let's sit down, hmm?" he suggested quietly, easing them both toward the bed. Emma stayed in his lap like a child, her arms around his neck and her head on his shoulder. "What do you need me to do, Emma?" he asked. "Tell me."

Emma's lips twitched in a sad smile. "This is good." She turned her head deeper into his shoulder and breathed him in, letting the familiar mix of salt, leather, and rum calm her. "I love you," she said.

He kissed her head. "And I you."

"Killian?"

"Aye?"

"I wanted it to be true. This time around. I just didn't know it until . . ."

He shushed her when her voice began to crack. "It's alright, love," he assured her. "There's no rush. We have time. Five years, remember? That was our deal."

Emma nodded. "Then we find an island."

"Aye, love. Then we find an island.

* * *

Killian left Emma asleep in their bed to step on deck. Despite the cold, he'd left his coat below, wanting to feel the bite of the wind against his skin in the hopes that it might distract him from his thoughts. Unfortunately, he had no such luck.

Emma.

Emma pregnant.

With his child.

And another.

He didn't know which upset him more, and he _was_ upset. He was upset about Neal. Never had he ever harbored such blind hate for a man he'd never met, and unless fate was truly a twisted, fickle bitch, he likely never would. Killian didn't understand it. He didn't understand how a man who claimed to love Emma Swan could betray her. He didn't understand how _any_ man could leave the woman he loved in prison.

Not to mention the child . . .

Emma was right about one thing. Even if Neal hadn't known about the child, having the knowledge now made it that much easier to hate him.

Because Emma should never have gone to prison. She should never have had to go through a pregnancy alone. She should never have had to give birth alone, _handcuffed_ to a _godsdamn_ _bed_. The picture alone of his Swan in chains was enough to set his blood on fire. She shouldn't have been alone. She shouldn't have been forced to give up her child.

And yet she had.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

So, yes, Killian Jones was upset, furious in fact, but more than anything, deep in his gut, he was painfully disappointed. The fact that Emma knew it made him feel like a selfish bastard, but gods help him, he wanted to see her stomach swollen with his child. He wanted to see the deck of the _Jolly_ full of riotous little pirates with their mother's eyes. He wanted to wake up to children bouncing on his bed, and he wanted to struggle to walk to the helm because a little hand kept tugging on his coat. Bloody hell, he'd even take the tantrums and the screaming because he just knew that his children would inherit their mother's furious little scowl that made her eyes flame bright.

He hadn't always thought of such things. It had been a faraway thought in the back of his mind. Children, a wife, a family . . . it was part of a future that he could barely imagine. More a picture of obligation, expectation. Eventually everyone settled down. He'd never particularly thought himself an exception.

Then he met Emma, and suddenly those faraway thoughts of marriage and children became frightfully real and vivid. And he _wanted_ it.

Killian didn't know if he could be a good father. His own father had been a piece of shite. Hardly a role model. But Liam . . . Liam had taught him good form. If he could just remember Liam, Killian thought that perhaps he had a chance of being a decent father. Gods knew, he would try.

Emma made him want to try, and he'd almost been a father today. Almost.

The knowledge that he wasn't hurt.

But he'd promised her five years, and he'd give her every single minute of those years, and if those five years passed and Emma still wasn't ready, he'd give her five more. He'd never ask more of her than she could give. He loved her. By the gods, did he love her. She was enough. She would always be enough.

He hoped she knew that.

Killian huffed, the smallest of smiles tugging his lips. Knowing his Swan, she still likely questioned it. Stubborn woman.

"Everything alright, Captain?"

The only sign that he was startled was in the brief second Killian's shoulders tensed. He stood straighter as he met Vincent's cautious yet sincere concern. "Fine, Mr. Turner," he said.

"Forgive me, sir, but it's cold enough to freeze bollocks out here, and you don't have a coat."

Killian cocked an eyebrow. "Are you a pirate or a bloody nursemaid?"

"Emma can't seem to decide either sometimes. Says I'm sensitive." Killian's lips twitched. "Is she alright, sir? She won't talk to me."

"She'll be fine."

Vincent hesitated. "Captain?"

"Yes, Mr. Turner?"

"Are you sure?"

The young pirate stood his ground as Killian took a threatening step forward. "I'd choose your next words very carefully, mate," he said dangerously. "Don't think Emma's fondness for you will stay my hand."

Vincent took a deep breath. "Won't it?" he challenged.

"Are you _blackmailing_ me, Turner?"

"I'd rather not think so, sir. I'd rather see it as conscientious bargaining."

"Conscientious bargaining," Killian repeated with an incredulous sneer before he chuckled without humor and drew his sword. He held the blade at Vincent's neck. "I'll not have anyone on my ship use Emma against me. Now," he pressed the blade deeper into Vincent's throat. Not hard enough to draw blood but if Vincent so much as sneezed, he'd slice his own carotid. "Choose your next words carefully."

"I'm not afraid of you."

It wasn't a bluff. If it had been a matter of defiant posturing, Killian would have sliced his throat and tossed him over the rail. But it wasn't a bluff. It was honest, and that made him hesitate. Vincent used the silence to his advantage. "And to be perfectly frank, sir, you only get so . . . _violently inclined_ . . . when you're upset."

"How observant."

"And," he continued, "only one thing can upset you this much nowadays, which is Emma being upset. So, respectfully, Captain, how is she?"

Killian's sword dropped. A pang of regret rang through him that he tried to ignore. "Perhaps you have a point," he admitted. Liam had always told him that his emotions would get the best of him if he wasn't careful. _Emotion leads to impulsivity, little brother. Think before you act._

Vincent merely nodded once, the motion one that could be read as respectful, or more boldly, as agreeing with Killian. Killian sensed it was the latter. "Emma will be fine," he repeated. "If you wish to know any more than that, ask her. It isn't my place to tell you anything more."

Nodding again, both men were silent until Vincent asked, "Is she with child?" Killian's head snapped to him. "It's the only bloody thing that makes sense," Vincent explained. "Been racking me brains tryin' to figure out what could put her in such a state, and with the way you two go at it—"

"Watch it," Killian warned and this time, Vincent raised his hands in submission.

"Forgive my bluntness, Captain," he said. "But she . . . something's been different about her lately. Not these past few days but before. She seemed . . . warm. It's just . . . me mum used to talk about ladies glowing and all when they're, well . . ." he trailed off as his age began to show and he ran his hand through his hair. "I just wondered if I'd need to watch her a bit more careful, that's all. And then scold her for not bloody telling me," he added, mildly annoyed.

When Killian had brought Vincent aboard, the boy had been thirteen and frightened as all hell of pledging himself to another captain. Killian couldn't blame the lad. If he hadn't had Liam hovering around him like a giant guard dog when he'd been that age, his experience aboard Silver's ship would have been much worse. Killian had always been striking. Yet back then, his good looks would not have been an advantage. It would have been akin to a death sentence.

So he hadn't thought twice about letting Vincent aboard, and he'd paid special attention to the rest of the crew in case they got any ideas.

But aside from that, Killian hadn't thought very much of Vincent Turner. The lad had been a good cabin boy and then a decent deckhand with a penchant for knots. It was only since Emma had come aboard and taken a shine to the lad that Killian had been forced to acknowledge that Vincent was a damn good sailor. More importantly, he was a good man. Better than the rest of them.

Perhaps it wasn't such a shock that he and Emma were close.

Killian sighed and looked away, eyes falling on the water. "She's not pregnant," he said simply. "And if you're smart, you'll let this conversation end."

Vincent frowned but didn't object. "Aye, Captain. Shall I take the helm?"

"Aye, Mr. Turner." Killian shivered. "It's fucking freezing."

"Your idea to travel to Arendelle, sir."

"I'm quite aware."

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry."

Killian paused but did not otherwise react to the knowing tone in Vincent's apology. Instead he said, "Keep a weather eye, Vincent."

"Aye, Captain."

* * *

 **I think that scene with Vincent and Killian is my favorite in this whole damn story.**

 **So! To everyone that was hoping for a baby, sorry! But it's natural to have a scare or two in a committed relationship, and it was about time Emma opened up fully about Neal. Our Swan usually needs a very firm shove when it comes to such things.**

 **So, next time . . . "You and Killian really are a lot alike." - Emma**

 **Until next time,**

 **AC**


	33. Chapter 33

**Author's Notes: Well, holy fuck knuckles, guys, I'm sorry. I can only throw out excuses like "finals" and "working in retail for Black Friday/Christmas" and "Jesus Christ I need a break" and " _Punisher_ came out on Netflix". Now, that that's done . . .**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

Chapter 33

After her pregnancy scare, Emma couldn't get the idea of having a kid out of her mind. She didn't know if she was ready for one and she didn't know if she wanted to try for one now, but she _did_ know that she wanted one. Eventually. That realization in itself was enough to terrify her.

She hadn't brought it up since that night. Months ago, now. Killian hadn't mentioned it either, but she caught him watching her sometimes, a longing look in his eye that gently faded whenever she met his eyes. He loved her. She knew that. And even though there was a stubborn part of her that was afraid he'd leave her if she didn't give him a child, Emma knew that those feelings were a result of her own fear.

She'd once told him that he was enough for her, and after all this time, she realized it would be idiotic if she tried to tell herself that Killian didn't feel the same about her.

She didn't do that anymore. She didn't find reasons to push people away. Her walls were down, and despite how much that still occasionally scared her, Emma was determined to keep them down. It was worth it. She was happy.

She really, really was happy. And Killian was happy.

Emma just thought that there was _one_ way to make them happier.

If only she could muster up the courage to do it.

Well, actually _doing_ _it_ wasn't a problem, per se.

Emma woke up with a sleepy giggle, glancing down through barely open eyes to see a lump over her middle. Lifting up the blankets, she was met with teasing blue eyes and a small cheeky grin. Killian blew another raspberry on her stomach, perilously close to her bellybutton, and she laughed again. "This isn't something I expected to wake up to," she admitted.

"Well, love, I tried the sexy way," he nipped at her skin and she sighed as he slowly made his way out from under the covers to kiss her lips, "but you just grumbled a bit and swatted at me. Should I be worried?"

Emma sucked his bottom lip into her mouth. He groaned. "Never," she promised. He settled between her thighs, and though she could feel him pressed against her, Killian seemed to be in no rush. He placed a few slow, wet kisses on her neck while she played with his hair, fingers tangling in the strands and massaging his scalp. Feeling devious, she slowly let her hand trail down his side as if she was going to stroke the scar there, only to abruptly pinch the skin right under his ribs.

She laughed when he jerked away from her, a choked sound leaving his lips. "Why you little—" he began but she did it again, fingers digging teasingly into his side, and he gasped a tiny laugh.

It had taken her over a year to discover that Killian Jones was ticklish, and Emma had spent the months since making up for wasted opportunities.

"Swan—" Killian tried to sound threatening but she pinched his side again, closer to his armpit, and he folded in on himself with a laugh. "Minx," he said, grabbing her wrists and pinning them on either side of her head. He tried to look stern and failed miserably as he smiled and said, "You shouldn't tease your Captain."

Emma's eyes brightened. "Is the Captain going to punish me?" she asked, grinning when he growled.

"You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you, love?"

She hummed and then impulsively lifted her head to kiss the end of his nose, shattering their mutual tension completely, and making Killian wryly shake his head as he chuckled. "Someone is in a good mood this morning," he said as he rested his forehead against hers.

Emma ran her hands up and down his back. "So are you."

"We're in port. You know what that means."

"I have an idea."

"It means," Killian said, let his lips graze her cheek, "that I get to have you to myself." He kissed behind her ear. "All night."

Emma sighed. "No night watches."

"No storms."

"No snapped lines."

"No Smee."

Emma snorted. "He does have the worst timing." She couldn't count the times the poor man had interrupted them. "So," she said. "What are you waiting for, pirate?"

"Well, that depends, Swan." Killian bent toward her. "Are you going to keep your pinching fingers to yourself?"

She pinched his ass and he groaned. Gods, this woman. "What?" she teased. "Afraid I'll throw off your rhythm?"

"My rhythm is fine."

"Hmm."

"You've never complained."

"I didn't say I had."

"Good."

Their lips met in a slow kiss, and Killian had to fight a smile as Emma sighed beneath him, already so pliant. There was little fanfare. No teasing beyond gently stroking hands and coaxing wet tongues. Killian sighed happily when they came together, content to kiss her and enjoy the feel of her surrounding him before Emma whined adorably and ground her hips into his. They settled into an easy rhythm that was just as sweet as it was tortuous. Killian loved making love to Emma, but there was something about lazy morning sex that truly did him in.

Maybe it was the way he got to watch her. Hair on the pillow. Eyes meeting his. Smile teasing her lips. There was no need to rush, no burning desire to slake. There was just them, Killian Jones and Emma Swan, and it was just so damn easy.

Emma fluttered sweetly around him, and he followed after her. He rolled them onto their sides and pulled her closer, burying his nose in her hair while she sighed into his neck. "We're really too good at that," she said.

He hummed. "Practice, love."

"I love practicing."

"Aye, so do I."

Emma bit her lip. This was her chance. Maybe they could stop practicing. Maybe they could . . . maybe she could be ready . . . she had nine months to get ready . . .

"Killian—"

"Captain!" Vincent knocked on the hatch. "You're needed on deck, sir."

Killian groaned and held her tighter. "Bloody hell, why."

Emma smiled. "Looks like you're needed."

"You need me."

"I already had you."

"Since when are you satisfied with just one round?" he grinned, kissing her lips before slipping from the bed and rummaging for clothes.

Emma watched him with a smile, her tentative resolution fading once more. They'd agreed on five years. She still had roughly two years and some change to go. There was no rush. They had time.

They had time.

* * *

"How's your son?"

Milah looked up from the cards in her hands. Emma sat next to her, carefully arranging her own cards even as she glanced at her with a slight smile. Months of knowing her, and Milah still couldn't rightly determine whether or not Emma genuinely liked her or merely tolerated her. But this, inquiring after Bae, she knew Emma truly meant.

"He's well," she said with a small smile. "He's such a curious boy, always running off. I can barely keep track of him."

Emma smiled. "Fully recovered, then?"

Milah barely reacted. Just a slight tightening around her eyes that Emma attributed to stress, not anger. Even thinking of Bae's sickness, of her idiot husband's devil's bargain, made Milah wish for something solid to hit with all her strength, broken knuckles be damned. She was happy her son was still alive. She loved her Baelfire. But her husband? Her husband could rot.

It wasn't as though she had wanted another child. Not really. Baelfire was enough for her, and truthfully, she didn't want to bring a child into the world with his father's cursed, cowardly name. But to know that the choice had been stolen from her rankled. Milah didn't have much, but she was proud, and she treasured her freedom—to choose, to live, to love—above all else.

If she'd ever harbored any semblance of love for Rumple, it had vanished the second she'd learned he had bartered for Bae's life by sacrificing their second-born.

"Milah?"

She blinked. "Forgive me," she apologized. "It's difficult for me to remember that time."

"I'm sorry for asking."

"No, no. It's quite alright. Bae is doing very well. Like it never happened."

Emma smiled softly. "Good."

Milah glanced at the bar where Killian leaned as he talked with the barkeep. The _Jolly Roger_ docked frequently enough in their small port that the infamous pirate Captain Jones had earned himself a bit of celebrity status. The barkeep, Flint, owned a small fishing vessel that he quite liked to brag about whenever Killian was in port. He also had a penchant for concocting fanciful fishing endeavors as if he was a Captain in his own right. When she had told Emma, the blonde had snickered and made some comment about a Captain Ahab.

Milah was well-aware that Killian only listened for the free drinks Flint inevitably gave at the end of one of his spiels.

Seeing Milah's attention drawn, Emma followed the woman's dark eyes to Killian's broad shoulders. She knew with one look that he was annoyed. "Flint must be droning on again," she said, pointedly turning back to her cards and waiting for Milah to do the same. If the older woman sensed the subtle chastisement, she didn't show it.

Emma wasn't an idiot. She knew exactly why Milah always met them at the tavern whenever they were in port, and it had nothing to do with the surprisingly good ale, decent food, and rowdy atmosphere. No, it had everything to do with a roughly six-foot, dark-haired, blue-eyed pirate captain that looked like sin itself.

Honestly, Emma understood. Her Captain was, as he was so fond of saying, _devilishly handsome_ , and a good man on top of it. She truly did understand how Milah's eyes would linger. But after months of those lingering eyes, Emma found herself toying with a very familiar emotion.

Jealousy.

She hated the feeling. It reminded her of foster care and watching other children being adopted while she was left behind. It always left her with an echo of that pain, of that sort of expectation—to be abandoned, forgotten, tossed away—that especially frustrated her nowadays since she knew she'd come so far from that place. She had Killian, the _Jolly_ , the crew. She had a home. She was loved.

But she still felt that awful twinge in her stomach whenever she caught Milah looking at Killian.

"How's your husband?" she asked.

Milah sighed. "Really, Emma? Are we not beyond such idle chitchat?" It was a neat dodge of the question that Emma silently acknowledged but didn't pursue. Milah paused to examine her hand before adding a coin to the pot. Emma countered with two coins and the hand continued to the other players. "I know you don't particularly like me—"

"It's not that," Emma said truthfully.

Despite her jealousy, Emma did like Milah. The older woman was confident and clever and could tell a good joke at the drop of a hat. Her wit was as sharp as Killian's, and Emma admitted that hearing the two of them quip back and forth never ceased to be entertaining. Her own conversations with the woman were typically equally as light and fun and most of the time, she forgot any feelings of jealousy.

But then Milah would catch Killian's eye and smile. It wasn't a flirty smile, and it wasn't friendly either. It was warm. Soft. And though Emma knew in her bones that Killian loved her, she still felt uneasy every time he flashed Milah his most charming grin. You'd have to be blind not to see their connection. They, well . . . they understood each other.

 _You and I, we understand each other._

That was only supposed to be _them_. It was supposed to be a unique Killian and Emma thing.

"It's my feelings for Killian, then," Milah said quietly, jolting Emma from her thoughts. She blinked, stunned. "I have no plans to act on them," Milah continued, her voice measured and calm. Honest. "Though it's not because I'm opposed to an affair." And blunt. "It's simply, well," she smiled ruefully, her eyes drifting over to Killian yet again, "I'm afraid his heart thoroughly belongs to you." She met Emma's gaze openly. "I've never seen a man more in love."

Emma tried not to react. Giving a reaction felt like conceding that she was relieved, as if she'd somehow doubted Killian, which was just ridiculous. There was no one she trusted more. But she felt relieved nonetheless. Her shoulders relaxed, her lips twitched in the slightest of smiles, and she ducked her head shyly. "I've lived a very hard life," she said. "I was always alone. People . . . they just left. I guess there's a part of me that will always expect it."

Milah laid a hand on her arm. "There's nothing wrong with that, Emma," she said, dark eyes burning, "so long as you fight back."

"You and Killian really are a lot alike."

"Perhaps it would have been enough, in another life."

"Ah, my two favorite women," Killian's happy, if tipsy, voice snapped the quiet tension as he squeezed onto the bench between them, an arm going around Milah's shoulders while his other hand settled on Emma's thigh beneath the table. "How are we doing tonight?" he asked as he looked at both of their hands.

Emma and Milah reacted at the same time. Milah elbowed him in the side while Emma smacked his chest with her free hand. "Get your own," they said at the same time.

"Honestly, Killian," Milah huffed as she shoved some cards toward him.

Emma hummed in agreement. "You should actually be glad you don't deal with him every day," she said.

"Oi, hang on," Killian protested half-heartedly. "It's not fair when the two of you turn against me."

"Quit whining and play, Captain," Emma said before throwing in three coins. "You're up."

They played for hours, drinking and singing and dancing and causing a general ruckus that was stupidly fun. Killian seemed happy to lead the festivities, using every considerable bit of his charm and charisma to get the whole tavern involved. Emma would never understand just how he'd convinced her to dance what she swore was an Irish jig on top of the table. She at least had the comfort of knowing that he'd been up there with her, bottle of rum in hand.

And she had gotten quite the kiss for her efforts.

Ever the considerate host, Killian had made sure to sweep Milah up in an energetic dance around the entire tavern that had the older woman giggling like she was a teenager. He laughed when they finally stopped and she took a large gulp of air with a smile. "Gods," she breathed, flushed. "I haven't danced like that since I was a girl."

"You didn't miss a step, love."

She blushed and Killian grinned. "Tell me you're having fun," he said.

"I'm having fun."

"Very good."

He kissed the back of her hand, and though she knew he meant it playfully, she couldn't help the way her heartbeat skipped. Killian Jones was unlike any man she'd ever known. Men like him weren't supposed to be real. Chivalrous and good and _brave_. Brave to the point of recklessness and so tenacious. Killian Jones would always fight for what he believed.

But what she admired most about him was the way he loved. It was so strange to be in love with a man who loved another so completely, but Milah couldn't help herself. She imagined she was often as jealous of Emma as Emma was jealous of her. For very much the same reasons.

She let him lead her back to their table where Emma sat laughing with Vincent as she poured them both shots of rum. Emma's eyes brightened when Killian came over, and Milah took her time pouring herself a drink while Killian snuck a kiss against Emma's laughing lips. "Where are we going next?" Emma asked.

Killian smirked. "Do you have a suggestion?"

"Somewhere warm."

He chuckled. "You still haven't forgiven me for that, have you?"

"I was scraping ice off the rails," Emma deadpanned. "For a month."

"Arendelle is a lovely kingdom."

"Not in _winter_."

"Perhaps not," he said with amusement as Emma scowled. "But you can't deny the trip was worth it, no?"

Emma rolled her eyes, but Milah leaned forward. "What was in Arendelle?" she asked.

Killian grinned. "It was something a stroke of luck," he admitted. "I didn't have much to go on," he began, spinning a tale about a mythical black ice diamond in the heart of Arendelle's glaciers. "Took us weeks of searching," he said. "Found it by accident, really." He tossed his head toward Vincent. "Turner there fell through the ice and landed in a cave."

"And a right bloody pain it was," Vincent muttered.

Emma nodded. "We almost didn't pull you out."

"Oi!"

Killian shook his head at the both of them, though Milah noted the fond look in his eye. "There was a whole bloody network carved right out of the ice," he explained. "Must've been centuries old. It was so elegantly carved that it looked like spun glass. The torchlight against the ice was like a sunrise on a clear morning."

Milah's eyes were wide as she imagined it. "Did you find the diamond?"

"Aye." Killian grinned. "Big as me fist."

"What he's leaving out," Emma piped up, "is the part when he took the diamond from the pedestal _even when I told him not to_ and set off a booby trap that collapsed all the tunnels. We barely made it out."

Vincent shuddered. "I'm not meant to run that fast."

"You aren't meant to run in general," Emma retorted.

"If that weren't so terribly true, I'd be offended."

"Where is it?" Milah asked. "Did you keep it?"

Killian smirked. "Aye," he said. "Might need it for a bargain one day."

"This is one of those moments when I envy you horribly," she admitted. "You're free to do whatever you want."

"Aye, but it cost me more than you know." His voice grew softer, his eyes haunted, and Milah wondered why. "Hardly matters now, though," he said lightly, relaxed and happy once again. Milah noticed Emma's hand on his thigh beneath the table. "And, you know, lass," he leaned closer to her, "one of these days, if you wish, I could take you on a trip."

Milah's eyes brightened. "You would?"

"Aye. We could go to Port Royal. It's warm this time of the year," he said, directing his words toward Emma who scoffed. "Just a quick trip."

"What would I tell my husband?"

"Visiting family?"

"They're dead."

"Visiting a friend?"

"I don't have any friends."

"Nonsense. You have me."

"Aye," she teased. "I suppose you're right."

Killian grinned. "Don't fret, love. We'll think of something."

The night went on well into the morning until Emma finally declared that she was going to bed and if Killian planned on joining her, he should take care of their tab and follow her. The few members of the crew that had not fallen into a drunken stupor or found a wench for the night laughed loudly, and Milah snickered under her breath as she watched Killian immediately do as he was told. "He's not the only one who gives orders around here," Emma said with a smirk.

"Do you like it?" Emma frowned, and Milah glanced at the tavern, the crew still having a good time. "This life you've chosen," she continued. "You hardly could have expected it."

Emma snorted. "You've got that right," she agreed before her face softened. "But yeah, I like it. I never thought I'd have anything like this, and I _definitely_ didn't think I'd be the mistress of a pirate ship," she looked across at the tavern at Killian with a growing smirk, "but it has its perks."

"If you could go back to your old life, would you?"

"I used to think I would, but . . . I got attached."

"I imagine it must have been terrifying."

"Scariest thing I've ever done."

"But worth it?"

Emma smiled. "A hundred times over." She looked past Milah and her smile grew brighter. "Hey, you."

Killian grinned. "Ready to go, love?" he asked, offering his hand. Emma rolled her eyes put let him pull her up, keeping hold of his hand once she was standing. He offered his free hand to Milah. "My lady?"

She smirked. "So kind for a pirate."

Once she was on her feet, she let go of his hand, only to feel the searing heat of his fingertips at the small of her back as he led them outside. The night was cool. Spring was slow to bloom this year, and Milah wished she had brought her shawl. She hovered to the side, arms folded tightly to her chest, as Killian bid goodbye to Emma and saw that she was escorted back to the _Jolly_.

This was somewhat of a routine for them, and she was particularly fond of what came next. Killian grinned and strode toward her once Emma was out of sight. "Shall we, lass?" he asked, offering her his arm.

"We shall," she smiled, looping her arm through his and using the cold air as an excuse to lean into him.

"Cold?" He didn't wait for an answer, shrugging out of his coat and placing it around her shoulders. She laughed under the heavy weight of the leather, even as she pulled it closed. "There," he said. "Much better."

"You don't have to do this, you know," she said as they walked toward her house. "I'm perfectly capable of walking alone."

"A gentlemen always sees a lady home. Especially after she's been kind enough to grace him with her company."

Milah shook her head. "Where will you go next?" she asked. "Surely you have some idea."

"I wasn't joking when I said it'd be somewhere warm," he grinned. "Got to keep Swan happy."

"You always call her that. Swan."

"Aye. I suppose it fits her best." His smile suddenly came close to bashful as he shrugged. "To me, anyway."

"You love her very much."

"With all my heart."

"She's lucky. Do you think you'll marry?"

"I certainly hope so. One day."

"You don't think she'd deny you?"

"She very well might," Killian said with a slight frown. "Swan . . . she's a tough lass. So many people in her life have left her, made promises they didn't keep. Marriage scares her."

"At least she would be marrying someone she loves."

Killian's eyes narrowed. "You don't love your husband?"

Though he phrased it as a question, Milah knew that he did not mean it as one. She sighed. "I was . . . I was rather stubborn in my youth. My mother said I had a free spirit. My father said that same spirit would get me nothing but trouble. He was right."

"I never met a man who drew my eye," she said. "I wanted True Love." She rolled her eyes. "I was young and naïve."

"I don't believe that," Killian said. "At least the naïve bit."

Milah smiled ruefully. "I knew exactly what I wanted and refused to settle for less," she said. "Of course, this left me unwed for a long while. Too long. People in the village were beginning to talk. I didn't help myself. Just because I was unwed didn't mean I hadn't gone to bed with a man. I was an old, spoiled woman with a worthless dowry."

"Rumple was my father's last chance at making me somewhat respectable," she said. "He wasn't everything that I wanted in a man, but he was kind. Sweet, I suppose. I thought I could grow to love him, and just as I believed I might truly care for him, he got called to serve in the Ogre Wars and chose to hurt himself so he would be sent home. That was the day I became nothing more than the wife of the village coward."

Killian couldn't imagine being bound to such a man. Milah was a fiery, fearless woman with a fair amount of pride. They were much alike, in that way. He could abide many insults but to call him a coward? Whoever dared would meet a swift death.

"I'm sorry, love," he said. "You don't deserve that."

"If he wasn't a good father to Bae, I would have left him long ago." Milah bit her lip. "But Bae is getting older now . . ."

Something in her voice made Killian stop. They were on a beaten cart path that led into her village. He could just see the outline of her house in the darkness. Light glowed within. Yet the thought that someone could see them didn't cross his mind. His head was too full with the implications of her tone. "Milah," he began, but she interrupted.

"You said you would take me on a trip," she said. "What if it wasn't merely a trip? What if I didn't want to come back?"

Killian didn't outright deny her. He couldn't. Not when he understood her so well, how trapped she felt, how she felt as if she was living a lie, untrue to herself. Killian could never be someone he was not. Milah was the same.

"What about your son?" he asked. "You'd leave him as well?"

Milah winced. "I love my son, Killian. I do."

"I know. That's why I'm asking."

"He'll be fine," she said eventually. "Rumple will take care of him."

"Milah—"

"I know it's horrible of me," she said. "I know it's selfish, but I . . . I need to be _free_ , Killian. Please, help me."

Killian wanted to help her. He had half a mind to just take her back to the _Jolly_ and have that be the end of it. But he couldn't. Because there was one person who would not at all agree with that decision, and that person just so happened to share his bed.

"Emma wouldn't—"

"Agree, I know," she said. "But honestly, Killian, you treat the woman as if she's a saint when we both bloody well know she isn't."

"Careful, Milah."

"No," she snapped. "So what if Emma doesn't agree? It's _your_ ship."

"It's our home," Killian corrected, his voice hard. "And I'm not stupid enough to invite trouble into it."

"I'd take Bae with me, but he's too young for life on a ship," Milah cajoled. "I'd come back for him once he was older."

"He may not want to go with you if you leave him now."

"It's a risk I'm willing to take."

Silence fell as Killian studied her. "You've been thinking of this for a long time," he said.

"Long before we met."

"Only now you have an opportunity," he shook his head begrudgingly. "You'd make a hell of a pirate." Milah smirked, and Killian was hopeless not to smirk back. "I'm talking to Emma," he said after a moment. "I can't promise anything."

Milah quelled her annoyance. Honestly, she loved the man because he was so devoted, but by the gods, it was certainly proving inconvenient. Despite that, there was a fond look in her eye as she studied his own troubled, wary blues. What she wouldn't give to have a man care for her like that. To worry so completely about her feelings, to hold them in such high regard that every decision made considered her first.

Their eyes met then, and Milah thoughtlessly took a small step closer to him. She stood there looking up at him, wrapped in his coat, surrounded by him, and she still wanted to be closer. Killian stared down at her, eyes clear—not confused, no that was a trite cliché, he knew exactly how she felt, she was certain—but he still didn't move away. Instead, he moved even closer. His hand settled on her waist and she felt its heat all the way through the leather of his coat and the linen of her dress. Then he bent toward her, and Milah hoped.

Such a silly hope.

Killian kissed her cheek, lips warm and scruff rough against her skin, an intoxicating difference that had her closing her eyes as if he'd kissed her lips. "Goodnight, Milah," he said softly, apologetic yet firm.

She smiled through her disappointment. She'd hadn't truly expected anything different. "Goodnight, Killian," she said, handing him back his jacket.

She felt his eyes on her all the way to her house, entirely unaware that another pair of eyes had seen the entire exchange.

* * *

 **Dun, dun, da dun . . .**

 **Thank you to everyone who has been so patient waiting for an update. I know it's frustrating, especially since I'm typically so consistent with the weekly updates. That said, I have a confession: I've lost the inspiration for this story. The show took a downhill turn for me at Season 5 despite the Captain Swan moments, and I just couldn't get back into it. It's been a struggle to dive in and write. I have three more chapters that are pre-written, and to give myself time to get back on the horse and write the shit out of this story (I refuse to abandon it, goddammit, you guys don't deserve that), I'm not going to guarantee another update this month. I will say that the "Storybrooke" part of this story I originally planned might turn into an Epilogue, which might be best considering that whole section could probably be a sequel, and I want this story to stand on it's own.**

 **So please bear with me on the update front. Just rest assured that they will come in their own time.**

 ** _Next time_ . . . "She wants to run away with me, Swan." - Killian**


	34. Chapter 34

**A/N: Yes, I know. It's been awhile yet again. Slowly but surely, right?**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

Chapter 34

She was going to do it. She was going to say it.

She wanted a kid.

Emma paced the length of the cabin, arms crossed under her breasts, eyes staring sightlessly at the bed or the wall, whichever way she happened to be facing. There was no need to be dramatic about it. She just needed to say it.

But _how_ did she say it?

There was a way to say it. There had to be. Something this big had to be special, didn't it?

God, she sucked at special.

Killian was the one who made things special. He was the one who slow danced with her on deck for the anniversary of their first date. He was the one who bought her a gallon of strawberries despite the fact that they were out of season. He was the one who took her night swimming in a hidden lagoon on a forgotten island. He was the one who added a swan pendant to his necklace just for her.

She woke him up in the middle of the night to have sex.

That was as romantic and special as she got (not that he seemed to mind).

Emma wasn't a romantic person. She wasn't soft. She wasn't sweet. She was practical. She was thoughtful. She bought him a new leather coat when his ripped. She sharpened his cutlass when she noticed it was starting to dull. She let him cuddle her until it felt like he was trying to smother her.

Emma Swan didn't do big, special, dramatic announcements, but just saying it felt wrong. You just didn't tell your True Love that you wanted to have a baby without a _tiny_ bit fanfare.

Right?

"Get a grip, Swan," she mumbled, raising a hand to rub her forehead. God, she was actually giving herself a headache. "It's not that big a deal."

Oh, but it _was_.

The sound of the hatch opening made her stiffen. Each of his footsteps on the stairs made her heart beat faster and her stomach flutter. She could do this. All she had to do was get it out there. Just pluck up the courage, say it, and then wait for him to smile and probably twirl her around. She knew how much he wanted this.

But nerves welled in her anyway when she saw his boots on the stairs. Dear god, she couldn't do this. Yes, she could. She wanted this. She did. For her. And him. But not _just_ for him. That was important.

But maybe she could . . . no, no, goddammit, she was doing this.

Emma squared her shoulders as Killian came into view. "Killian, I—what happened?"

Thoughts of children left her as she took him in. His hair was ruffled, far too ruffled for mere wind to be the cause. His hair was nearly standing on end from having pulled at it, and his face was drawn in a troubled expression that she'd rarely seen in their two years together. It immediately had her heart clenching in worry.

"Killian?" She crossed the room until she was right in front him, placing a hand on the side of his face. "What's wrong?"

Killian stared at her, torn with an inner struggle she couldn't read, until he finally said, "Milah."

Despite her best intentions, Emma felt her walls shudder. Jealousy flared in her stomach, and she swallowed, whether to hold in whatever she might say or prepare herself for whatever Killian might reveal. In her gut, she knew she wouldn't like it either way. "What happened?" she repeated.

"She's in love with me, Swan."

"I know."

"She wants to run away with me."

Emma frowned. "What happened" she repeated, her voice quieter, slightly hesitant.

Killian immediately sought to soothe her. "Nothing you're thinking, love," he said firmly, his hand caressing her cheek. "We're True Love, you and I. I will never know or care for another like I do for you."

They didn't bring it up often, the whole "True Love" thing. Mainly because Emma thought it was cliché. Something out of a storybook. But in times like these, when she felt insecure, she relished hearing it. She liked thinking that it was fate that they were together, that they were soulmates, that there was literally no one who could love her like _him_.

"I know," she assured him, and he nodded.

His hand went to his hair, grasping and pulling as he walked away from her. He needed to think. He needed to move. "She wants to run away, Swan," he said. "But not like you'd think. She just wants to be free."

"What about her son?"

Killian flinched. "I know."

"She can't leave him."

Though part of him hated himself for it, Killian said, "He'd still have his father."

Emma's eyes widened. "That's not enough."

"Do you really think that's true, or are you saying that because of your own parents?"

"What?"

"They abandoned you. Both of them."

"So?" Emma snapped. "That doesn't mean that a kid doesn't need both parents."

"But what if that relationship is flawed, Swan? What if it's toxic?"

"Just because she doesn't love her husband, doesn't make their relationship toxic."

"But it's a _lie_ ," Killian insisted. "It's a bloody farce, Swan, and you know it. She hates him."

"A child needs its mother."

"Emma—"

"Would your mother have abandoned you?" Emma demanded. "Even if she was miserable, even if she hated your father, would she have left you?"

Killian's eyes narrowed. "You're walking a fine line, love," he warned, but Emma shook her head.

"She wouldn't have left," she said. "She wouldn't have left you for a second. I wouldn't have left," she added, her voice strained. "Even if I didn't love you, I would stay. Because every kid deserves both parents."

Killian sighed heavily. "Emma," he said, pained.

"I know," she assured him. "Not everyone is us," she said. With more confidence that she ever would have known herself to possess two years ago, Emma closed the distance between them to place both her hands on his chest, closing her eyes when he bent his head toward hers until their foreheads met. "I . . . I know you and Milah have a connection," she said reluctantly. "I know that you understand her, that she understands you—"

"Not like you, darling," Killian interrupted, feeling as if it was important that he make that clear. "No one understands me like you do."

Emma smiled faintly, cupping his cheek. "And I love you for it," she said. "For trusting me. So believe me when I say that we can't let her just _leave_."

Killian sighed. "Aye, but I know her, love," he said. "If I don't take her away from here, she'll find someone else. Some bastard like Blackbeard. And then who is to blame?"

Emma didn't have an answer.

* * *

Milah knew the moment that Killian and Emma walked into the tavern the next night that she had caused some strife for the couple. Both were far more subdued than usual, Killian especially. She didn't think that she had ever seen him so outwardly brooding and dark since she'd met him. Even Emma's touch seemed to do nothing. In fact, as the night progressed, Milah thought that it only served to make Killian more upset.

She thought she should feel guilty for the trouble she'd caused, but she could only think that perhaps this would secure her desires. Killian was clearly troubled, and she knew it was because he wanted to help her. He understood her. He knew _why_ she needed to leave.

It was Emma that kept him from making a decision.

The night felt like a farce. When Killian could be troubled to smile, it was a slight twitch of his lips, hardly the dashing grins she was used to. Emma, always the quieter of the two, was practically silent, spending most of her time with Vincent and occasionally trading a few murmured words. Worse was the crew, as if sensing the discontent in its Captain and Mistress, mimicked them until the atmosphere in the tavern was downright sullen. The songs they sang were slow and soft instead of quick and loud. The music they played was equally sad and soothing, and the shouts of joy at the gambling tables were lessened to nothing more than chuckles.

And it finally made Milah snap.

Whether it was genuine frustration or a lingering feeling of guilt, she stood up from the table where she sat with Killian who was steadily emptying a bottle of rum. She didn't check to see if he noticed her absence. She was focused on Emma noticing her approach.

And the blonde certainly did. Sharp green eyes immediately snapped to her the second she moved, so quick that Milah suspected Emma had been watching her out of the corner of her eye the entire night. It was something that truly irritated her about Killian's lover. Emma Swan wasn't afraid of confrontation, but at the same time, she avoided it until it was inevitable.

Milah much preferred avoiding such nonsense.

She had a problem, and she was going to bloody well deal with it.

"Do you mind if I sit?" she asked, pausing at the bench opposite Emma's table.

Emma glanced at Vincent. "Give us a few minutes?"

"Aye, lass."

Milah held the boy's gaze when he briefly met her eyes, almost as if to warn her against upsetting Emma, something that Milah nearly scoffed at until she realized just how serious the lad was. "I'll be back with another round," he promised, shooting one last look at Emma before heading for the bar.

Seeing his absence as her invitation, Milah took a seat at the table opposite Emma. She kept her hands clasped but on the table between them, an open gesture meant to combat Emma's defensive posture. The other woman sat hunched over the table, arms folded, while she kept her face perfectly blank.

Milah shifted. "You think I'm making a mistake," she said.

"Yeah, I do." Emma didn't bother denying it. Milah hadn't expected her to. "You can't just leave, Milah," she said. "It's not right, and it's not fair."

"To whom?"

"To your family. Your _son_."

"And what about me?" Milah insisted. "Why is it always a woman's job, her expectation, to make such personal sacrifices? She loses her name, she loses her dreams, she loses her independence. She gains a new name, and she bears children to carry on that name. _That_ is a woman's life, Emma. There's no thought to woman's dreams, here."

Emma hated that she sympathized. Her travels with Killian had made it clear that she was living a life of untold freedom. She went where she wanted, did what she wanted. More importantly, she was with a man who _wanted_ her to want things and took a ridiculous amount of joy from seeing those desires fulfilled. She was spoiled, something she had never been before in her life until now.

Life in the Enchanted Forest, for a woman like her, for a woman like Milah, could so easily be confining and smothering. People lived a simple life here with very simple roles and desires. Most women she met were content with those roles. They were happy being a wife. They were happy being a mother. And they had no want or desire for more.

Emma understood that. She didn't feel the same way, but she understood it.

But Milah? A woman like Milah could never be content with such a simple life.

And Emma couldn't blame her.

"Look, I . . ." she sighed. "I know you're right. You do deserve to do something for yourself. If you want to travel and see the world, great. I get it. And I get wanting to escape a situation where you feel trapped, like you don't belong . . . but I . . . you _can't_ leave Bae."

"Because you were abandoned?"

"What?"

"Killian didn't tell me," Milah assured, "if that's what you're worried about."

Emma leaned back. "I know he wouldn't say anything," she said. "How did you figure it out?"

"Anyone this adamant must have personal experience."

"My experience doesn't matter. Or maybe it does. All I know is that it hurts, Milah," she said. "It hurts to know you weren't good enough, that something about you drove them away."

Milah frowned. "Bae has nothing to do with me leaving."

"He won't see it that way."

"You don't know that. And he has his father. He won't be alone."

Emma wanted to argue. She was stubborn enough to argue on principle alone, and she very nearly did. But she resolutely clenched her jaw like Killian so often did and stayed silent. Milah would not change her mind, and Emma knew it. She and Milah were much alike in the sense that once their minds were set, there was no swaying them.

Yet this left Emma in a bind. She knew Killian wanted to help Milah. Despite the fact that he didn't agree with her, despite the fact that he never would have done the same, Killian still understood. Emma understood, too. She did. But where Killian was willing to bend, she was resolute. She couldn't let Milah leave her son. She couldn't agree that it was okay.

Emma took a consoling sip of rum, relishing the burn and the warmth that settled in her chest. She met Milah's dark gaze for a long moment. The older woman was so much like Killian, and in the end, Emma knew that her opinion, ultimately, wouldn't make a damn bit of difference. Milah was too stubborn, too driven, too tenacious to fold. If she couldn't find passage on the _Jolly_ , she would find another ship. Killian was right in that regard.

So, in the end, despite the fact that every fiber of her being rebelled at the idea, Emma quietly admitted to herself that if Milah was determined to leave, she couldn't deny her passage for the sake of her conscience. It was Milah's choice. It was Milah's life. It was Milah's child.

"I don't agree with you," she said eventually. "At all. But I can't force you to stay here, just as I can't keep you from leaving. That's not my right."

Milah barely kept the smile from her face. Oh, she wanted to laugh! She bit her tongue. "Thank you," she said.

"I'll tell Killian. We plan to leave the day after tomorrow. Early."

"I'll be ready."

Emma nodded and rose without another word, taking her bottle of rum with her as she crossed the tavern to where Killian sat with Bee, Wallace, and a handful of the crew. A pair of loaded die sat in the middle of the table next to a pile of gold and silver pieces. Each man held two cards in their hands, and Emma had no doubt that each of them had more cards up their sleeves. She supposed it wasn't really cheating when everyone refused to play fair.

Two years with Killian and the _Jolly_ and she still didn't have a grasp on the rules of the game. There were certain rolls of the die that were better for some cards and worse for others, and the point system made no sense to her. In some ways it reminded her of a mutation of poker and backgammon. Killian understood it at least, well enough to out-cheat the rest of the crew as he abruptly grinned and threw down his cards with one had while he slid the coins toward him, laughing while everyone else groaned and cursed.

"Swan!" he said, holding out his arm and offering her his knee. Emma sat, her arm sliding around his shoulders, and he inwardly relaxed, his smile as he counted his winnings melting into something easier, more genuine. "With you here for luck, I'll surely win the next round."

Killian thought that perhaps he'd misinterpreted Emma's actions as a truce when she didn't smirk back at him as he expected, a quip on her delectable lips. He watched as she glanced at the men and asked them for a moment alone. Though a few grumbled, they did as asked, and any other time, Killian would have felt pleased (possibly proud) knowing that his Swan had become so firmly a part of his life both as a man and as a captain.

Instead, he frowned as he looked up at her reluctant eyes. "I talked with Milah," she said without prelude. "I told her to be at the docks the day after tomorrow."

Killian felt his jaw drop. He blinked. "Pardon?"

Emma sighed. "I know."

"But, Swan . . ."

"I can't dictate someone's life just because I don't agree with her choices, Killian. So, yeah."

Killian studied her for a moment, shocked and cautiously pleased. He'd never expected Emma to give in. His Swan was stubborn, and he loved that about her, that she was as willful as the sea he sailed, but Emma rarely admitted defeat. And that's what this was for her, he knew. But she'd accepted it anyway, and he was proud.

"Alright, then," he said with the smallest of smiles. "We'll take her as far as Port Royal. Anna Maria is there often enough."

Emma nearly shuddered at the thought of what mischief Anna Maria and Milah could get into together, but she couldn't deny that the two women would get on like a house on fire so long as they were willing to compromise. "That's not a bad idea," she said.

"It happens on occasion." He kissed under her jaw. "Now, please tell me this blasted tension between us is resolved," he said. "I've had a headache all day and rum isn't helping."

Emma's lips twitched. "Well," she said as she leaned closer. "I may know a way to fix that," she said, smiling wider when Killian hummed.

"Really, now?"

"Yeah, really."

"So, what do you say we blow this Popsicle stand?"

"Hey, you used that one right!"

"It's not my fault your bloody metaphors make no sense," he complained before looking at her, pleased as punch, "but I catch on pretty quick, you'll find."

From her place across the bar, Milah watched them leave, hands intertwined. "One more day," she said into her rum. "One more day."

* * *

The next night, Milah came to the tavern determined to have a good time. She'd gotten into an argument with Rumple about her frequent goings to such a den of depravity. He was worried about what the villagers would think of _her_ , of how that could reflect on their son. Milah thought that a tired, hard-working mother wanting to unwind after a long day wasn't such a horrible thing.

And, perhaps, she had felt some measure of guilt knowing that tonight was her last night in town, that tomorrow morning Bae would wake up to find her gone, that he'd likely be so very confused. She'd written a letter to him. Emma's words had weighed on her conscience long into the night until she'd written out an explanation to Bae, promising him that she would return for him, that they had adventures just waiting for them. He only needed to wait a little longer.

The note was a comforting warmth in her pocket as she spent the evening dancing and drinking and cheating at cards. Killian and his crew were making the most of their final day in port, and even Emma—by far always the more subdued of the bunch—danced a jig on a tabletop with Vincent that had everyone stomping and cheering, and once Emma was off the table—catcalling—as Killian swept forward in three strides and bent her backwards in a kiss that was borderline indecent. Milah was in such a fine mood that the display only made her wish they would find a room for their own sakes.

As the night wound down, the sailors settled into quieter past times. Cards were brought out. Gold and silver were gambled. Milah sat next to Killian with her own cards, listening carefully as he explained to her the rules of the game and betting the appropriate pieces. She had no money but was instead playing with Killian's cards, which she had initially balked at, as she had no desire to use his money for her own gain, but Killian had given her that sweet grin of his and called it a going-away present.

The night was passing so well that Milah supposed she should have known it would go straight to shit.

She had just won her first hand all on her own to a chorus of cheers and drinks when she heard an all too familiar smooth, if weak voice, "Milah." Everyone near quieted but Milah didn't look up. She could just imagine him standing there, both hands on his staff in his nerves, eyes wide and timid—gentle, really, when she was feeling kind—and it made her stomach roil. He couldn't be here. Not now. Not _tonight_. "It's time to go," Rumple said.

"Good," she said, pouring another drink. Aware now of both her husband's eyes and Killian's, and oh she didn't want Rumple anywhere near Killian! He wasn't allowed to be here, where she felt so free and new and young. He wasn't allowed to be here where Killian could see him, judge him, judge _her_ . . . "By all means, leave."

Killian took in Rumple—clutching his staff, wrapped in a dirty brown cloak that hid threadbare clothes—and felt a small sense of pity. It was entirely Emma's influence, as he knew that once upon a time he would not have given a rat's arse about the man that Milah would abandon—for that was obviously who it was, and Killian wished that Emma had picked a better time to go man-hunting with Vincent.

He glanced from Rumple to Milah. "Who's this?" he asked. It was polite. Or petty. He wasn't sure which.

Milah, however, was undoubtedly cruel. "Who? Him? Oh, he's no one. Just my husband."

There were a few laughs. Killian didn't laugh, particularly when Bee said, "I thought he'd be taller." More laughs.

"Please." Rumple's voice was soft. "You have responsibilities."

"You mean like being a man?" All of Milah's resentment somehow managed to be conveyed in just six words. She stared at her husband searchingly. Why couldn't he have been brave? Why couldn't he have fought? Why couldn't he have died? That would have been better for everyone. "Like fighting in the Ogre Wars? Other women became widows while I became latched to the village coward." Killian wouldn't have run. Killian would have fought. Killian would have _won_. Why couldn't Rumple have been like Killian? "I need a break," she muttered, pouring herself a drink. Did she need a break or to drown her guilt? "Run home, Rumple. It's what you're good at."

There. He would go now. He wasn't supposed to be here. Here, where she was young and free and saying goodbye.

"Mama?"

A little boy with wild, wavy brown hair and sweet brown eyes took a hesitant step toward the table.

"Bae?" Rumple cried softly. "You were supposed to wait outside, son."

No. No, no, no. He wasn't supposed to be here. She . . . no, they both couldn't be here. Milah rose without a thought, her note burning in her pocket. Get him out, get him out. She kept that thought firmly in her mind as she gently led Bae out of the tavern and briskly walked home, each and every hobble and thud from Rumple's staff behind her feeling like the beat of a war drum.

"It's time for bed, love," she said once they were home, but Bae was hesitant.

"Are you angry with me?"

She caressed his cheek. "No, Bae. I'm not angry with you. You've done nothing wrong."

"You're upset."

"I'm just tired is all," she said. "Now, go to sleep. We've got a big day tomorrow."

She had walked home fast enough to leave Rumple far behind, a petty trick but one she was glad for as she could now meet him outside and keep their argument from reaching Bae's ears. Rumple was out of breath as he limped toward her. He didn't even have the decency to look angry about it, but she had anger enough for the both of them.

"How dare you," she hissed. "What did you think you were doing, bringing him to a tavern?"

"I didn't want him to be alone."

"Don't give me that. I don't believe you. No, you've always been a conniving one. You wanted him to follow you into that tavern so that I would come home."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"It's true!"

"Who was that man?"

"What?"

"That man in the tavern, the one in black."

Milah laughed, low and mocking. "Oh, this is rich. This is _rich_. You're jealous."

"I saw you with him."

"Yes, I imagine so. He was right there."

"Not tonight. A few nights past. He walked you home."

"Yes, gentlemen are known to do that."

"You were wearing his coat."

"It was cold."

"Did you think of Bae?"

"What?"

"People in the village will talk . . ."

Milah scowled. "Let them," she challenged. "Let them talk. I don't care. They're all pathetic gossips with hardly a brain to share between them all, and you're a fool for caring what they think of me. You worry about what they think of you." She looked at him in disgust. "I'm going to bed. See you in the morning."

She took great satisfaction knowing that was a lie.

* * *

"You're quiet."

"Hm?"

Killian looked over at Emma, who lay on her side in bed, a hand propping up her head as she watched him flip through the ledger and do the same sums she knew he'd done two days ago. A glass of rum sat untouched in front of him, and there was a furrow in his brow that she wanted to smooth with her finger. "What are you thinking about?" she asked. "Did I miss something?"

Killian abruptly tossed down his pen and reached for his drink. "That's putting it lightly," he said before taking a healthy sip. "Milah's husband showed up not long after you left with Vincent."

Emma sat up. "He what?"

"And Bae was with him."

" _What?_ " Emma frowned. "Do you think—?"

Killian shook his head. "I don't know."

"If she changes her mind, then—"

"She won't," he interrupted. "She won't change her mind. This will only make her more determined to leave."

Emma sighed and flopped back onto the bed. Killian came over quietly, his boots scuffing against the floor. He sat down next to her and picked up her hand, lacing their fingers together. He turned their hands this way and that, as if admiring how they looked from all angles, but Emma knew he was only thinking. Finally, he admitted, "Swan, I've got a bad feeling about this one."

She squeezed his hand.

"Me too."

* * *

 **Yeah, they're both right about that.**

 **I'm so sorry this is getting to you after two months. This story is still a struggle for me, despite my best efforts, but I'm trying. And I'll continue to try, I promise.**

 **Thank you so much for your patience.**

 **Quote from next chapter comes from . . . Rumple . . . "Pardon, I must have the wrong ship."**

 **Lots of love,**

 **AC**


	35. Chapter 35

**Author's Notes:**

 ***peeks out from behind her laptop***

 ***waves tentatively***

 **Um . . . hey guys. Still there?**

 **It kills me that I'm so slow churning this out. It's like pulling teeth. I've fallen out of love with these characters, and I hate it because the story itself is one that I remember loving desperately and being so excited to write. So, here's what I'm going to do. I'm gonna get to a place where I feel like I can stop. Then I'll post an epilogue. I refuse to leave this unfinished. It might not end the way I originally planned, but goddammit, I'm gonna give you guys a decent ending if it kills me. I owe you guys that.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

Chapter 35

Milah arrived at the docks just as the sun crested the horizon. Finding the _Jolly_ was easy enough. Killian had given her a tour during one of his visits months ago, and she went toward the red and blue ship with a feeling of familiarity and growing excitement as loud voices and straining lines and creaking wood became clearer. She grasped her bag tighter, only hesitating a moment at the bottom of the gangplank before she marched up.

As soon as her feet touched the deck, she grinned. A feeling of completion settled over her. It was done. She was aboard. She was leaving. She was free. The wind in her hair, the salt on her skin, the gulls in the sky, the rock of the ship . . . it was hers. She was free.

"You made it."

Milah had never seen Emma look more like a pirate. Her hair was wild and loose, tied back from her face with a bandanna that brought out the green of her eyes that were thickly lined with kohl. She wore a coat Milah had never seen before. Red and leather and short with a strange silver clasp. Her boots were sturdy and she wore a cutlass tied to her hip and a dagger strapped to her thigh.

Emma smiled slightly, eyeing Milah's bag. "You'll have Smee's quarters during your stay," she said, tossing her head toward the bow. "It's not the classiest accommodation, but it's better than the crew's quarters." Emma led her into a small room. There was a cot against the wall and a small desk that looked lonely in the corner. "You can get settled here, if you want. We should be leaving in an hour or so."

"Where's Killian?"

"I imagine he's overseeing all the rum casks."

Milah snickered and Emma's lips twitched. "Milah," she began, twisting her fingers nervously. "I have to ask: Are you sure you want to do this?"

"I know you don't understand, but yes. I really am sure."

Emma nodded. "Okay, then." She turned but paused in the doorway. "Welcome aboard."

* * *

Rumpelstiltskin had never thought himself to be a coward.

It wasn't something he thought anyone ever truly thought about. Why would they? How rare was it when one's mettle was truly tested? Fear was a natural part of life. Fear kept you alive. It was a natural response. Fear saved you.

You ran faster, thought quicker. Great things could be accomplished through fear. Because of fear.

Rumple knew that he was alive because of fear. He respected a man's ability to be afraid. He saw no cowardice in it. Smart men knew fear. Cleverer men accepted it, and Rumple had always thought himself clever.

He wasn't strong. He wasn't particularly striking. There was nothing about him, really, that stood out at first glance. He spoke softly. He tread softly. He flinched at loud noises and bowed at the insults hurled at him.

So it surprised Rumple when he found himself striding down the docks of Queen's Port.

He wasn't sure what he planned. He only knew that Milah couldn't leave him.

The ship was easy to find. Queen's Port was small. There were only ten or so slips, and only one big enough to hold a ship like the _Jolly Roger_. Rumple knew the name. Of course he knew the name. Captain Jones was one of the most notorious pirates in the Enchanted Forest. It was rumored that he'd sailed into Davy's Jones's Locker and thwarted the Sea God himself. Fantastic tales of what many would call bravery and cunning.

Milah had called Jones fearless.

The deck was busy as he approached. Sailors were calling out to each other, pulling at ropes and laughing at jokes he was still too far away to hear. It sounded merry, like a group of friends, but Rumple didn't trust it. Even in the morning sun, their weapons glinted in the light like a reminder that these people his Milah had surrounded herself with were dangerous.

Navigating the gangplank with his staff was a hardship, but he managed admirably, only faltering once, though his stumble onto the deck did cause some attention. The merriment dimmed immediately. Laughter ceased. Smiles dimmed. Suspicion flared.

His eyes quickly scanned the deck.

No Milah.

And, tellingly, no Captain Jones.

"Can I help you?"

The sound of a feminine voice made his head turn. A blonde woman came up from below. She was beautiful. Soft on the surface. Sun-kissed skin, a dusting of freckles over her nose, and sea green eyes. Yet her voice held a curt note. Her shoulders were squared and her gaze sharp. Not unfriendly yet not exactly welcoming.

But entirely unexpected.

"Pardon me," Rumple said. "I must have the wrong ship."

"This is the _Jolly Roger_ ," she said. There was a hardness to her voice that he didn't think he'd done anything to deserve. There was a distinct impression that he wasn't wanted, and it made him shuffle awkwardly, staff clinking against the planks only reinforcing his presence. The woman's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

So this was the right ship. Rumple stared at Emma. His first thought was that she must be a prostitute. He had heard that some pirates bought slaves for pleasure and took them aboard to warm their beds during long sails. Was his Milah unknowingly walking into such a fate? Yet this woman held herself too proudly. There was an air of command about her, something almost royal in the way she held herself, that reminded him of his days as a soldier when an officer would ride past, high astride his horse in full armor. It was noble. Gallant.

"I'm sorry to impress upon your time," Rumple apologized. He nearly bowed but caught himself. "I was wondering if I could speak to the Captain?"

"What business do you have with Killian?"

Killian. She called him by his name. Did Milah know she was a second choice?

"It is a private matter." He glanced nervously at the man surrounding him. Their broad shoulders and thick arms made him feel small. "I-I would rather not say."

Compassion softened the woman's stare, and Rumple almost relaxed before her green gaze became a storm. There was conflict there, and it only served to double his own nerves. This woman knew why he was here.

"You're right," she agreed before glancing at the men on deck. "Back to work," she ordered. She didn't shout, yet there was no lack of command and even more so an expectation that her word would be followed.

And to Rumple's surprise, it was true.

Tasks resumed. Conversation began again. The ship creaked. A breeze blew his hair into his eyes as he followed the woman toward the rear of the ship. Her gaze drifted up and Rumple's eyes followed.

He was there. Captain Killian Jones stood at the helm, his shoulders tall and proud. Everything about him emanated confidence—from the direct way he met the woman's gaze, as if he knew all of her and held nothing back, to the surety of his steps as he started toward them like a man who would not be denied. A brief flicker of jealousy washed through Rumple as Jones came closer. It was plain that Killian Jones was a handsome man, clothed in fine black leather and a heavy coat that had looked far bigger on Milah's small shoulders.

"Ready to make way, Swan?" Jones asked once he had descended the stairs to the quarterdeck. Rumple was glad he didn't have to shuffle up to meet him, and instantly hated the thought of looking so weak in front of this man who chose to ignore him and ask a question of the lady first. _Swan_. An interesting endearment.

Rumple wondered if the Captain had one for Milah, too.

"Ready when you are," Swan replied with a tone that lacked the teasing he expected was typically there. Jones held her gaze for another half-second. Rumple knew that kind of look. It wasn't one he'd experienced for himself, but he knew it. It was intimacy. It was the silent language that developed between lovers who knew all of each other.

Rumple's chest twisted.

Killian glanced at Emma. Her brows rose a fraction. His lips pressed together. She glared. He looked at Rumple. "Right this way," he said.

He led them to a place that before Emma, Killian had kept locked. Only months after the Battle of the Brethren did he even retrieve the key he'd kept in the hollow drawer where Emma had once hidden his grandfather's heart. After that the key had stayed in his pocket for another few weeks before Emma finally caught him turning it over in his hand. She'd asked if that was what had been distracting him.

It was the key to the Captain's Quarters.

The _real_ Captain's Quarters.

Liam's room.

The quarters he used now were still his, yet they were his as his brother's lieutenant. On any other vessel he would have been granted quarters next to his brother, but Killian had always felt the noose that was his Naval obligation and brother's expectations loosen whenever he spent time with the crew below deck. His decision was one he suspected Liam knew yet indulged, and the crew got over their suspicion soon enough when he revealed his stunning repertoire of bawdy shanties entirely inappropriate for an officer of rank and his truly cunning ability to win at liar's dice.

After all, he could hardly have turned his whole crew pirate if they hadn't felt he was one of them.

Yet the night he had become Captain, taking his brother's rank, he had locked the doors to the Captain's Quarters and put it away to gather dust.

The room was spotless as he led Rumple through. It was an office now. Killian kept his ledgers and receipts in the desk and under Emma's suggestion displayed on the many shelves some of their favorite treasures they'd discovered on their adventures. He watched Rumple take it all in. The broadsword from DunBroch. A tiara from Agrabah. A lantern from Corona. The conch from Atlantis.

Rumple swallowed. "You have many fine treasures," he said. "I imagine you want for nothing."

"Is that why you're here?" Killian leaned back against the desk and crossed his arms in that cocky way of his that normally had Emma shaking her head fondly. Now she eyed the pose warily from where she stood behind the desk. "To compliment me?"

"You have my wife."

 _I've had many a man's wife._

The words were on the tip of his tongue, but Killian swallowed them with the briefest glance at Emma. He was still a scoundrel, but he was hers alone.

"Milah's friendship is dear to me," he said instead. "You need not fear for her."

"Please, don't do this."

"You seem to be under the impression that I've taken her against her will." Killian wondered if Rumple thought so in more ways than one, and the insinuation made his skin crawl and his already low opinion of Rumple fall lower still. His next words here harsher as a result. "I assure you, I've done no such thing."

Emma stepped forward. She placed a hand on Killian's arm, and his shoulders lost some of their tension. Rumple noticed and felt a flare of hope. "Milah asked us to help her find a new life," she said. "It's always been her choice. Trust me, I did my best to discourage her, but she wants to go. I'm sorry."

"Please, I'm begging you. She's my wife." His eyes met Killian's. "Surely you understand."

Killian said nothing for a long moment, and then, "I'll not order her off my ship. I've never forced a woman to do anything against her wishes, and I've never knowingly pushed a friend into an unhappy situation." He met Rumple's eyes squarely. "She isn't happy with you. Let her go."

Rumple's chin wobbled. "Please."

Killian wasn't sure what it was about the man that incited such an immediate dislike, but he found himself falling into shadow, the darkness contained within his heart sliding through his veins like ice. It burned but it was an intoxicating burn. His shoulders relaxed with it, and his eyes grew cold. Emma shifted beside him. She felt the change in the air. She did nothing but tighten her hand on his arm. A reminder or a warning, whichever one he would heed.

She knew he merely counted the touch as a reminder when his eyes cut to her. His gaze thawed. He was in control.

"I've said all I will," he said, his voice clipped. Rumple cowed. "Swan will escort you off the ship."

Rumple didn't want to leave, yet he found himself hobbling after Emma despite his desire to stay and find his Milah. She was his wife. His wife! He loved her. He'd only told her the once, when she'd given birth to Bae, and even then in their greatest moment of joy, she had not said it back. She'd smiled so beautifully at him that he had been able to explain it away as understood. One of those silent exchanges lovers indulged in perfect moments.

How silly he had been.

The sun was bright when he stepped onto the deck. He squinted and raised a hand to shield his eyes. Emma winced at the sheen she saw there. It made Rumple's eyes appear warmer and sympathetic. "She may not show it, but she's torn about leaving," she said, hoping to offer a pathetic sort of olive branch purely for the sake of her conscience. "She took a long time to make her decision. She must think it's best."

"Best for whom?"

The question seemed to fill Rumple with courage. Bae's sweet face was clear in his mind as he stopped and turned back toward Killian, who leaned against the closed doors to the office, arms still crossed and now his legs at the ankle. Half of his face was in shadow, and the darkness around him pulsed like a living thing. A living, dangerous thing.

He couldn't let Milah stay. He had to take her home. For Bae.

"Please," he pleaded once more, uncaring that the crew had stopped to watch the spectacle. Rumple tentatively took a few steps away from Emma whose eyes were trained on Killian. "We have a son who needs his mother."

Guilt? Killian scowled. The man wanted to guilt him? His own past reared its ugly head, and the anger he felt took on an edge of old pain that festered under his skin like a burrowing parasite. It took root and gorged itself on leftover feelings of abandonment and resentment and loathing until Killian was drunk with it. "He'll survive," he said.

"Please," Rumple pleaded again. He swallowed, "sir."

That word tipped the scales. Killian wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was the respect missing, the obvious ploy, or the even more obvious disdain that swallowed the simple syllable, but it was that one little word, _sir_ , that let the darkness chill his veins. It left him cool and deceptively calm.

He did the one thing Rumple didn't expect.

He smiled.

"I'll tell you what," he said. "I'll make you a deal." Rumple's eyes surged with hope, and Killian relished it because he knew he was about to snatch it right back. "I consider myself a gentleman, a man with a code." Smee was within arm's reach, and Killian took the man's sword and tossed it at Rumple's feet. "Pick it up," he said.

Rumple's eyes widened. He began to shake his head. His eyes welled.

"Killian," Emma warned.

"If you truly want your wife back," Killian unsheathed his own sword, the metal singing in the air, "all you have to do is take her. Never been in a duel before, I take it?" he mocked. Every second Rumple fumbled and gasped and trembled only made Killian angrier. "It's quite simple really, the pointy end goes in the other guy," he said, almost like a joke. His voice was light, conversational. Some of the crew laughed. He let the point of his sword rest against Rumple's chest. "Go on," he said. His voice hardened. "Pick it up."

Rumple gripped his staff tightly for fear that he'd fall. His knees were weak and his whole body felt heavy. He wanted to bend, to curl in on himself, to hide. He was scared. He was humiliated. Yet he did nothing. Sobs were trapped in his chest.

In that moment, he felt totally limp.

"A man unwilling to fight for what he wants, deserves what he gets."

Killian's words were cruel and blunt. Rumple flinched, and Killian felt his ire spike. Part of him wanted to run the man through and be done with him. Yet he made the mistake (or had the fortune) of seeing Emma move out of the corner of his eye. She walked toward him calmly and once again raised her hand. Her fingers wrapped around his forearm, and he felt her nails through his coat. He met her gaze coldly, pupils nearly black, but her green eyes were fire as she glared back at him.

He let his arm fall. She kept hold of it.

Rumple nearly wept in relief. And despair.

"Please, sir,"—there was that word, again—"what will I tell my boy?"

"Try the truth," Killian said walking back up the stairs to the helm, shaking off Emma's hold, "that his father was a coward."

 _Just like mine._

He didn't look back, trusting that Emma would see the man off the ship, and set a course for Port Royal.

* * *

Milah spent her first day aboard the _Jolly_ keeping to herself. She hadn't expected to react to her newfound freedom by confining herself to her quarters, yet the prospect of being on deck, surrounded by the sea that she had always admired and the people she had come to see as friends was a daunting prospect she hadn't foreseen. It wasn't that she regretted her decision. No, she could never regret her decision to leave. Consequences be damned. What she did regret was how she'd done it, and she wondered if it made her a coward.

Her pockets felt light without the weight of her letter to Bae. She'd left the note on the boy's pillow, sure that he would find it when he woke. She hoped it would comfort him. She hoped that he would forgive her. Just two years. He was ten now. Twelve would be a ripe age for a cabin boy, and she knew that he would make a fine sailor. Perhaps she would be a First Mate by then. Perhaps even a Captain. She knew she could do it.

Yet she was trapped by a feeling of discontent that kept her confined to the small bed she'd been given, and as the day passed and night dawned, she accepted that it wasn't Bae who kept her prisoner, but Rumple.

She knew that he had come aboard. She'd heard him, heard Killian challenge him, and then nothing but the familiar scratch and thud of a staff against the planks that faded until she heard nothing but the sounds and shouts of a ship underway.

Milah's head snapped toward the door at the sound of a knock. "Yes?" she said, sitting up and running her hand through her hair.

The door opened and Killian poked his head in. "Hungry?" She hadn't spared a thought for food, but at his question, her stomach rumbled. Killian smirked. "Come," he said. "It'll just be us tonight."

Us. Milah assumed that included Emma, but when she followed him into large office beneath the quarterdeck, there were only two settings at the table. She eyed the fine silverware and gold embroidered plates with pleasure, running her fingers over the soft cloth napkin before placing it in her lap. There were candles on the table and a bottle of port. It wasn't her favorite, but it was the finest thing she'd ever tasted and she felt a flash of envy at the thought of Emma enjoying such things every night.

She shoved it away as she filled her plate. The meat was rich and the vegetables hearty. Much finer and fuller than she was used to, and she forced herself to eat small bites so she wouldn't inhale it like a starving urchin. Killian's eyes twinkled at her like he knew what she was doing as he hid his smirk behind his wine glass.

"You've kept to yourself," he said after a moment. "I didn't think you would."

"I found that I needed the time to think."

"Second thoughts?"

"No. A twinge of regret, perhaps."

Killian studied her a moment, then said, "Your husband came for you."

"Did he?" she parried lightly. She stabbed a carrot. "He must not have put up much of a fuss."

"I gave him the chance for fight for you."

"Fight for me? You would have had better luck getting a fish to fly." She made a show of glancing around the large cabin. "Where's Emma?"

"With the crew," he said. "Bee roped her into a game of liar's dice. I fully expect her to come up frustrated and a few gold pieces poorer."

"I can't see her being a good liar."

"She's actually a brilliant one," Killian said fondly, and Milah's heart clenched. "It's just she has a habit of getting cocky and betting too much, and Bee knows her too well to be fooled." His eyes narrowed as he looked across at her, "Just like I know you."

Milah sighed and looked at her plate. "I don't regret leaving," she said. "I made my choice."

"If he had fought for you, would that have made a difference?"

"We'll never know, will we?"

* * *

Emma was in the crow's nest for the first time in a long time. It was a clear night. The stars were bright and the moon glowed. She fixed her eyes on the sky, remembering a time years ago when she hadn't known all their names and could barely spot the Big Dipper unless Ace pointed it out with a gnarled finger. She missed the old geezer on nights like this.

Her pocket was a gold piece lighter. Bee had robbed her once again to the crew's delight. She thought they may have been a bit nicer about it than usual and wondered if everyone knew she wasn't as sure of herself as she would have them believe. All day the deck had been deferential to her. Cracking extra jokes and teasing with an unusual amount of sweetness, like she was a little girl whose feelings they wished to spare. She loved and resented them for it.

Because she was fine.

She was. Totally fine. Completely fine.

Yeah, okay, that was bullshit.

But what could she do? Milah was here, her husband was humiliated, and her son was abandoned. Emma hated that she was complicit in any of it. She didn't want to be a part of it, but she couldn't see how she could have avoided any of it. Killian had been right when he said that Milah would find a way with or without them, and at least this way, Emma could rest easier knowing that Milah needn't sleep with a knife under her pillow on a less reputable ship.

Still. There was something about her husband, Rumple—what kind of name was that, anyway?—that made Emma's hair stand on end and her magic crackle in her veins. She got a bad feeling whenever she thought of his wide guileless eyes and hunched shoulders. A deep sense of distrust settled in her gut whenever she looked at him. It was completely unfounded. The poor man had done nothing to earn it, and yet Emma found herself treating him more like a snake in the grass than a timid little rabbit.

Her magic reacted without her consent and her fingertips sparked like a frayed powerline. Emma hissed in annoyance before furrowing her brow and twisting her wrist. The sparks settled into a small ball of light. Its golden color reminded her of the fireflies she had watched during her brief stay at a foster home in New Orleans. The warmth was comforting. It was the kind of heat she felt all the way to her bones, and she spent the next few minutes twirling the little ball around her fingers before she sighed and closed her fist.

It was like blowing out a candle.

The noise below deck died down, and she heard the skeleton crew come up for the night shift. It was Vincent's turn at the helm, and she caught his eyes as he checked his compass behind the wheel. He frowned, and she shook her head. The last thing she wanted was for him to tell her exactly what her problem was and how she should go about fixing it.

She didn't want to talk about Killian. She didn't want to talk about Milah. And she certainly didn't want to talk about the little man with his ratty cloak and clunky staff.

Emma sighed and looked up at the sky.

Somehow, she knew that she would come to regret ever letting Milah aboard.

* * *

 **I really hope I'll get the next chapter out soonish. Let's hope another 2 months doesn't go by, at least.**

 **I adore all of you,**

 **AC**


	36. Chapter 36

**Author's Notes: Hi, all. I'm alive.**

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

* * *

Chapter 36

A year passed without incident.

Okay, that was a lie, but no one died so Emma was calling it a win.

There'd been a trip to Atlantis, another smuggling venture in Narnia, and a brief stint in a prison in a realm that had suspiciously looked like Rivendell. Oh, and a long adventure with Jack and Elizabeth about the Fountain of Youth that ended with no one immortal and all of them nearly dead. She shouldn't have been so thrilled by it all, but Emma had become a pirate in the purest form and lo and behold it was exactly who she was meant to be.

"Swan?"

She groaned and buried her face deeper into the pillow.

"Swan?"

Killian's voice was teasing and he trailed a fingertip over her ticklish ribs. She groaned louder to hide her laugh and turned further into the bedding. Killian laughed.

"Emma."

She sighed. "What," she mumbled.

"Time to get up."

"Is not."

"It's noon."

"It's my birthday. I do what I want."

"I regret telling you that."

"Can't take it back, buddy."

His lips were suddenly on her bare shoulder. Oh, that was hardly fair. She cracked open an eye to see his hand planted like a tree by her pillow. Her eyes trailed up his arm. His bare arm. To his shoulder, and . . .

"Oh my god, are you naked?"

"So I am. So are you. It's fate."

"Oh my god."

"Happy birthday."

Emma finally cracked and laughed, opening both eyes and turning just as Killian settled atop her, blue eyes shining with mischief. She stared up at him, slowly shaking her head. "You're so stupid," she said with a smile.

"You know, a lesser man would be put off by your strange compliments."

"Good to know you get me."

"Oh, I'll get you, Swan. I'll get you good."

There's a playfulness to their lovemaking that comes with age and intimacy and the simple passing of time. Nothing was new anymore. The passion had settled into steadfast embers rather than a roaring flame. Emma didn't mind. She liked the familiarity. She liked the deep affection that burned through the lust. And she liked laughing during sex.

She was still giggling as she came down from her orgasm, thighs still twitching and her womb still dancing. Killian hummed as he gathered her in his arms, pulling her to him until she was laying across his chest and he could easily bury his nose in her hair and nibble the shell of her ear if he felt inclined. Turns out he did.

Emma laughed again and swatted his side. "Stop it."

"No."

Killian smirked before holding her tight and flipping her over so that their positions were reversed. Her surprised squeal brought a grin to his face and a deep sense of satisfaction and contentment. He stared down at her, blonde hair fanned out over the pillow, green eyes sparkling up at him, and felt his grin melt into something tender. He lightly brushed her hair back.

"Four years," he murmured. "Can you believe it, Swan?"

Emma shook her head. "Not a bit," she said. "Feels like longer and no time at all." She gently traced the scar on his cheek. "Who would have thought I'd go from bailbonds person to pirate?"

"I always knew you were a pirate," Killian said smugly. "Moment I saw you in that tavern."

"You were cocky."

"I was charming."

"Is that what you call it?"

"Hmm."

He kissed her, and she let herself get lost in the comfort of his lips. She kissed his jaw. Her hands slid through his hair. "What's the plan, Captain?" she asked.

"Plan? What plan?"

"My birthday."

"Is that today?"

She slapped his arm and he laughed. "Well," he sighed as he fell to the side, taking her with him so that her head rested on his chest and his hand settled on her hip. "I suppose we'll start with a bit of shopping . . ."

Emma listened with growing excitement and wonder as Killian explained all that he had planned for her. It was only the second time they were celebrating her birthday. Well, to the extent that Killian felt she deserved anyway. Her first birthday aboard the _Jolly_ had passed with little fanfare, considering that no one had known about it until weeks later when it happened to come up. Killian had been so flustered he'd nearly been angry that he'd missed it and had spent the next week lavishing her with gifts until she finally hit him and told him to cut it out.

She was slightly more gracious during her second birthday aboard the _Jolly_. She let Killian host a party on deck not unlike the feast they'd held after rescuing Elizabeth from the Locker, and the night had ended much the same—her and Killian drunk and naked. Two things she loved and thought went well together no matter what day.

But Killian had always wanted to do more. If they were in her world, she had no doubt that he would pull out balloons, streamers, fireworks, and one of those stupidly big cakes with all the requisite candles. There would be music and dancing and more gifts than Christmas. It would have been everything that Emma had always dreamed of as a little girl, and it was for that reason that she didn't let Killian celebrate like he wanted.

Despite having lived for years in something of a fairytale, Emma still had times when she felt like the Ugly Duckling—that abandoned, friendless orphan girl who no one loved or wanted. It was a part of her she would never shake, and she knew that. Killian knew that. He understood that. And Emma thought it was because he understood that he wanted to make up for every birthday never celebrated. All those days in foster homes when she didn't even get a card while she watched her classmates rent out bounce houses and arcades.

Only last year had she allowed Killian to do whatever he wished, and he'd surprised her by doing the last thing she expected. There was no big party, no pile of expensive gifts. They dropped the crew off at Tortuga and sailed to a tiny rum runner's island where they drank port and made love on the beach to the sound of the waves and the fire crackling on shore. She'd surprised herself that night when she'd begun to wonder if he would ask her to marry him, and when morning came and there was no ring, she'd felt a brief pang of disappointment.

There'd been a few moments like that. A romantic dinner. A walk on the beach. A pearl necklace instead of a ring in a jewelry box. She thought he was working up to it, testing the waters like any good sailor, and she was glad. He'd promised her five years. Five years of adventure and piracy before they found an island, which was their own code for "settle down."

It struck her as interesting now, in hindsight, that she had been ready to have a child before getting married. Not that she thought a child out of wedlock was a big deal. Obviously not. But because somehow, strangely, marriage had seemed scarier. It was something she had never envisioned for herself. Even with Neal. Yet knowing Killian grounded the possibility in reality, firm and true, and she hadn't known what to do with it.

So in her typical way, she'd ignored it.

But ever since her last birthday, since the rum runner's island, Emma admitted that she'd been thinking about two damning words more than she thought she should.

"So, Swan, what do you say?" Killian's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "We can go ashore, haggle over presents you don't want me to buy, and then lunch at the Governor's mansion. Do you like the sound of that?"

She smiled. "I do."

And when the day ended with her wrapped in his arms once again, huddled in her crow's nest while they watched Bee's impressive fireworks explode in the sky, she knew that one day soon she would say those two words and mean it.

"Here's to another year, darling," Killian promised.

Emma couldn't wait.

* * *

It was months later, as Emma sat behind Killian's desk looking over a map of Corona to chart their next course, that a familiar worn journal next to her began to glow. Emma dropped her pencil in surprise. The journal had been a gift from Elizabeth, so long ago now, it felt like, right after her first meeting at the Brethren Court as a Pirate Lord. It was the magical equivalent of email, and Emma traded her pencil for a pen as she opened the book.

 _Emma,_

 _It has been far too long since we last spoke. The fault lies with me, I believe. I have left a few of your letters unanswered, and for that I apologize. Jack got us trapped in a strange realm where everyone seemed to be running from their past. It was an odd little place, and I think it would have been slightly more familiar to you. There were tall buildings of stone and large machines that could do the work of ten men. Likely more. It was fascinating and terrifying all at once._

 _Naturally, you can imagine, I'd love to go back for a better look._

 _Unfortunately, I am not writing to you just to "chat" as you so often say. My friend, I am sorry to ask that you and Killian come to Shipwreck's Cove in the next fortnight. There is trouble brewing once again, and I find myself both as your friend and your King in need of your advice and reputation. I fear no upheaval. Nothing like the last time we met. However, I do expect some dissension, and yours and Killian's word will do well to quell the more timid of us._

 _Though, if you feel the need to show off your "fire fingers" I will never protest a good show._

 _Safe seas,_

 _Elizabeth_

She read the letter twice before turning the page and writing a quick response.

 _Liz,_

 _It will take Killian and I a week to reach the Cove. Maybe we can use the extra time to discuss the trouble on the horizon? We should grab a drink without the boys. I want to hear more about this strange, unfinished world._

 _Your friend,_

 _Emma_

* * *

Shipwreck Cove was exactly as Killian remembered it—cold, dark, and forbidden. The crags seemed sharper than he last time he'd seen them, and the ocean spray climbed the cliff face like hungry white fingers. The air felt heavy and thick and smelled sweet. A storm was brewing.

He cursed.

"I don't like it, Swan," he said as they walked along the dock. It had been repaired in their absence but already looked weathered. "Nothing good ever comes from this place."

"Elizabeth didn't sound too concerned," Emma said. "I don't think there's anything to worry about."

"I have no fond memories of this place."

"I do." She smiled up at him. "You told me you loved me."

"Yes. And then you got shot, if I remember."

She shrugged. "It happens."

Killian chuckled unwillingly as they wound through the dark halls. They paused at their rooms that had been prepared for them. Dark walls but soft bedding Emma didn't think they would use at all. She took a moment to fix her hair in the mirror, change into a clean shirt, and then followed Killian as he led them into town.

She'd never seen the pirate port beyond the winding dark halls of the Brethren Court cut into the cliffs. The actual town was above ground but not much different from the stone tunnels she knew. It was nothing like Tortuga. The Cove was quiet. She could hear the waves beating the rocks below and the shouts of sailors tying the moors. Voices were soft. Business was done. There was no fighting, no shouting.

It gave Emma the tense feeling she'd always felt attending church. Forced quietness. Condemned air.

"Is it always like this?" she asked as they walked toward the doors of the Wicked Wench. It was one of only two taverns in the Cove. "I thought it would be . . . louder."

"The Cove is as close to hallowed ground as it gets for us pirates," Killian explained, his voice low. "It was meant originally as a safe haven, a place where pirates could gather without fear of repercussions, but that has changed over the years. The Cove became a throne to be fought over. This is as peaceful as it's been in years."

"Because of Elizabeth."

"She has been King for ten years. It's a record."

"What was the record?"

"A year, I believe."

"Oh."

"This way, Swan."

The Wicked Wench was sparsely filled but much nicer than any pirate tavern Emma had stepped foot in. The tables were nice and sturdy, scuffed but not rickety. The chairs still had all their arms and the glass that held her rum was actually clean. Almost shiny.

Elizabeth and Jack were in the back at a table bigger than the rest, and the chairs had padded cushions. Emma had the feeling it was as close to a throne as Elizabeth would allow. The Pirate King rose when she spotted them and greeted them with a wide, child-like smile.

"Emma!" There was no hug, but Elizabeth grasped both her arms and squeezed. "It is good to see you."

Emma smirked. "Nice to see you, too. The last time I saw you, you were running from the locals."

"I've never met such a violent native people!"

"I thought they were quite lovely, as it were," Jack said in his usual charming way. He winked at Emma. "Other Swan."

Emma and Elizabeth rolled their eyes at the same time. Elizabeth tossed her head in her lover's direction. "Jack only says that because somehow he convinced them that he was their god made manifest and they worshipped him."

Killian cocked an eyebrow. "Funny god."

"Oi!"

"Then they decided to eat him to gather the strength from his flesh," Elizabeth said then added drolly, "I was going to be the l'apperitif."

"You looked lovely in coconuts, darling."

"I'll never forgive you for that."

Jack laughed before throwing his arms out. "Sit and have a drink," he said. "Lizzie wants to catch up, and I've got nothing better to do."

When Emma had still been in the Land Without Magic—she had stopped thinking of it as _home_ some time ago—she had always looked down at the couples in fancy restaurants that always seemed to divide into chatty stereotypes. The men would laugh loudly and drink and talk about nothing, while the women huddled together and whispered and occasionally giggled.

How fucking hilarious that she was a part of it now.

She could hear Killian and Jack talking about absolutely nothing in particular. Aside from their ships, the sea, and how majestic they were at the helm. They were comparing their compasses, and Emma hoped they kept the comparison there. Elizabeth followed her gaze and snickered, her tricorn hat slipping a little over her eyes, and she shoved it back up.

"Men," she said simply.

"Aye," Emma agreed. "Idiots."

They both giggled.

Emma took another sip of rum. She had no idea what her count was, but she thought she was at least five drinks in and the night was still young. "So," she said. "How are things?"

"With me and Jack?" Elizabeth tossed back her rum. "He annoys me."

Emma laughed. "Still sailing on the _Empress_ , then?"

Elizabeth usually sailed her own ship when she felt a bit too inclined to slip a sword between Jack's ribs.

"Yes," she said, only to sigh—never in fondness, only exasperation—as she looked over at Jack. "But I miss the _Pearl_."

"Just the ship?"

"Shut up." She looked at Emma over the rim of her glass. "And you?" she asked. "How are things?"

"Perfect."

Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow before grinning widely. "Why Emma, do you have something to tell me?"

"No."

"Well why the bloody fuck not? What's the wanker waiting for?"

"I don't know. The right moment?"

"I should've intervened years ago. Where's my pistol?"

"I'll not have you threatening him to marry me at gunpoint, Liz!" Emma whispered heatedly as she tried to not to laugh. "That takes the romance out of it, don't you think?"

"Romance? Emma Swan, what has he done to you?"

"So much."

"Naughty."

"Jealous."

"Never."

"Liar."

"Pirate."

They toasted and drank.

"Honestly, though, love," Elizabeth said as she refilled their glasses. "As happy as you seem, something haunts you."

Emma looked down. "I noticed the _Jolie Rose_ was here."

Elizabeth frowned. "I wasn't aware you had a problem with Anna Maria."

"Not exactly."

"Well, don't look behind you, then."

Emma looked.

Milah noticed.

She looked like Emma remembered and yet more. She looked younger, as if she'd regained something – or perhaps found – a part of her childhood that she had lost. She stood taller, decked out in leather trousers and a corset over a white shirt with red trim. A brown coat hung over it all and she wore a feathered hat on her head that hid half of her face. Thick gold earrings tangled in her hair and even from where she sat with Elizabeth, Emma could see the sparkle and shine of the rings on Milah's fingers.

Milah looked like a Pirate Lord. It was flawless. It was honest.

It reminded Emma of Killian.

Yet there was a hesitance in Milah's eyes as she met Emma's gaze, then her shoulders squared and she began to move forward. Elizabeth took a blithe sip of rum as she watched. "Lovely," she said. "Free entertainment."

Emma glared at her. "Shut up, Liz."

Elizabeth tsked and took another drink. Milah offered her a brief nod once she reached the table. "Your Majesty," she said.

"Fuck that nonsense, love," Elizabeth said with a smile. "Sit. Have a drink."

"I don't wish to impose," Milah said as Emma kicked Elizabeth under the table, thinking that this must be what it was like to have an older sister. Bitch. Milah smiled faintly at Emma. "Emma, it's good to see you. Might I have a word?"

"Yeah." She turned as she stood, looking for Killian, only to frown when she saw that he and Jack had disappeared.

"They're over at the card tables," Elizabeth said as she got to her feet as well, bottle of rum in hand. "Where I will also be swindling them of everything they own."

Emma shook her head. "How do you sleep at night?"

"On silk sheets, naked and rolling in money." Elizabeth winked. "You should try it." She canted her head in Milah's direction. "If you'll excuse me."

Emma watched Elizabeth swagger over to the same card table where Jack and Killian sat. "She gets more like Jack every time I see her," she said. She looked at Milah and then gestured to the chair Elizabeth had vacated. "Might as well sit," she said.

Both women sat, and neither immediately spoke. Milah poured a drink while Emma finished hers. Finally, Emma asked, "How are you? Pirate life everything you thought it'd be?"

Milah smiled slightly. "And more," she replied. "And you? How is Killian?"

"We're fine."

More silence.

Milah sighed. "You still resent ferrying me away, don't you?"

"I regret everything that came with it."

"In some ways, so do I." Milah took a long sip of rum. "I can't believe it's been two years," she said. "I've seen so much, done so much. There are songs sung about me, the things I've done. I've known more respect in these two years at sea than I ever knew with Rumple. My whole life, really. I'm someone I'm proud of now."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"You mean that, don't you?"

"I've never disliked you, Milah."

"We've never been friends."

"I doubt we ever will be."

"I like that," Milah said. "In some ways, I don't think I've ever shared such an understanding with anyone."

"Nah," Emma denied. "We both just don't have time for bullshit."

Milah laughed and they toasted. Emma poured another round. Milah's smile faded as she took a sip. "I went back, you know," she said. "Home." She looked up, her eyes soft in a way that Emma remembered her talking about her son. "I told myself the day I left that I would come back. For Bae. I left him a letter, telling him what I'd done, what I planned." Milah looked away and took another drink. Her eyes fell to the table as she sighed. "I had it all sorted, Emma. Anna Maria was fine to bring him aboard, and you know how she loathes men."

Emma snorted. Anna Maria's distrust was rather legendary. "Yeah, I think everyone does," she said.

"She's not so bad, really," Milah said. "Once you get to know her." Emma's brow rose, hearing something in Milah's voice that made her wonder. Milah didn't comment, but she smiled a little into her drink. "I had it all sorted," she repeated. "Anna and I sailed into port. She even went with me. Walking in that village again . . . can you believe that no one recognized me? They all looked at me. At Anna. Like I remember people looking at you and Killian. As if we were something other and different. They wanted us to stay and they wanted us to never come back." Milah shook her head. "Anyway," she said. "I saw him. My Baelfire. He'd gotten so big. He was playing with the other boys. He looked happy. I'd . . . I didn't realize I'd forgotten just how brightly he smiled. I watched him all day. He's become such a man. He worked the fields and helped a girl carry her water back to her house." Milah looked at Emma then, almost plaintive. "And you know . . . I couldn't go to him. I stood and I watched and I smiled but I couldn't make myself move."

Milah looked away. "Anna stayed an extra day," she said. "Just out of kindness. But I couldn't . . . was it wrong for me to leave him?" she asked, turning back to Emma. "He was happy. He had his life. He had his place. And no one . . . no one knew who I was. No one looked at me twice." She smiled feebly. "And neither did he. There was a moment, I thought . . . we locked eyes . . . he was in the market and bought a fish. I was behind the vendor, and he looked up and he stared and I think he started to smile. I like to think that. But he got distracted, the vendor said something, and I . . . I went back to the _Jolie_ and Anna cut the mooring lines."

Emma stared at Milah for a long time. "Why are you telling me this?"

"A strange sort of penance, I suppose," Milah said. "You always disapproved of my leaving him. I never thought myself a coward in doing so. I was going to come back, take him with me. We were going to have so many adventures, but this . . . this isn't the life I want for him. Just yesterday I killed a man in a raid. He did nothing to me, but he had what I wanted. So I killed him." Milah looked at Emma. "I'm someone I'm proud of," she said. "But I'm not his mother. Not the one he remembers. I don't know if I could ever be that person without feeling as if I was losing a part of myself. And he doesn't deserve that."

"Do you want me to tell you that you did the right thing?"

"I don't think you would even if you made up your mind about it," Milah said with a cynical smile. "That's not your way. Not with me, I don't think. I don't know. I just . . . I just wanted you to know that I tried."

Emma wanted to tell her that she'd made the wrong decision. She wanted to tell Milah that she was a coward for running away from her problems, from her fears, but she couldn't. Emma had done the same thing more than once. She still wanted to run sometimes, and the sea was a beguiling, teasing mistress that promised endless possibilities. Emma understood that. She understood it too well.

Years ago, she would have understood but ignored it. She would have demanded that Milah go back. It was right. It was good. It was best. And maybe it still was. But Emma couldn't do that anymore. She'd grown, too. She'd changed. She'd learned. And she knew that life wasn't that simple.

"You've always done what you've thought was best," she said finally. "I've always believed that."

And Milah smiled, truly. "Thank you, Emma."

The night passed without incident and without the memory of regrets. Milah and Killian reconnected and spent the majority of the night together at the card tables trying to out-cheat the other while Jack kept that both honest about it while swindling the both of them. Elizabeth and Emma played multiple games of darts – a game Emma had introduced much to the other Swann's delight, as it involved sharp objects and gambling – and it passed the time in a way that allowed Emma to forget about Milah and how she was currently laughing with Killian like a teenager.

Elizabeth plied her with rum until they were both swinging and singing and dancing on top of tables. Vincent joined them and took turns spinning them about until Elizabeth landed on her ass on the floor and stayed there giggling until Jack pulled her up and told her that she was going to bed. Elizabeth perked up at that. Emma thought she'd be asleep before they even made it to the bed, and from the indulgent look on Jack's face as he steered out toward the door, he knew it, too.

Vincent disappeared with the first mate of the _Lucky Lady_ soon after Elizabeth left, leaving Emma without her two best friends – and she was just drunk enough to be very upset about it – but then Killian was at her side, without Milah anywhere in sight, smiling in a way that he only did for her. She bopped his nose with her finger. "Hi," she said.

Killian smiled indulgently. "Hi," he repeated. "Had a bit too much rum, love?"

Emma giggled. "I like it when you call me that."

"Love."

She hit his chest. "You did it again." The floor tripped her. Killian caught her with a laugh. Emma laughed, too. "You're strong. And handsome."

"You're completely sloshed, aren't you?"

"I am in total control of my actions."

"That, I believe," he said as her fingers started to slip under his vest. He caught her hand. "Perhaps we should take this to our room?"

"Yes. You can ravish me there."

"Quite right."

Emma wasn't entirely sure how she got from the Wicked Wench to their room at the Cove. She remembered stumbling and laughing and feeling the muscles in Killian's arms whenever he steadied her. When she was suddenly flat on a bed, she giggled. She didn't know why. Killian laughed. Oh, that was why.

She turned her head to look at him. "I love you," she said. "I don't say it a lot but I do."

"I know you do, Swan."

"And I know that you won't leave me."

"Good."

"Because you don't love Milah."

"No, Swan. I don't."

"And I know that."

"I believe you."

"I'm just dumb."

Killian smiled softly. He sat on the bed next to her and brushed her hair back out of her face. Emma suddenly looked sober, even if her eyes were still glazed and her pupils wide. "No, love," he said. "You're not dumb. Just very human."

"Your human."

"Aye, mine."

"You should make it official."

"What?"

"I keep waiting for you to ask, but you don't. I think you're nervous."

"Swan?"

"Marry me."

"S-Swan?"

"You shouldn't be nervous," she said. "I'll say _yes_. No pressure. See?"

Killian stared at her a long while. Emma almost thought he'd ask. But he only smiled in that soft little way of his. It wasn't a big smile. His lips barely moved. The smile was in his eyes. Big and blue and sweet. "Aye," he said. "I'll remember."

"Good."

* * *

 **So at least I gave you fluff? I have no clue when another chapter will come, but until I post some sort of author's note declaring this story perpetually unfinished, the game is still on.**

 **Just slow. _Really_ slow.**

 **Lots of love,**

 **AC**


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